Theodore sat in his dimly lit chamber, his mind clouded by the incessant frustrations that had plagued him ever since his brother Constantine began meddling with the delicate fabric of Orthodox traditions. The noise of the religion—of progress, of reform—weighed heavily on his shoulders, and the cold stone walls of Mystras offered little comfort.

Across from him, Alexios stood by the hearth, his expression unreadable. They had spoken at length before, in secret, about Constantine's dangerous game with the Latin Church. The Latin Bibles. Theodore clenched his jaw at the thought. It wasn't just the foreign alliances that burned in his soul—it was Constantine's obsession with bringing the West's heresies into the empire.

A knock echoed through the room.

"Enter," Theodore commanded, his voice carrying the weight of his brooding anger.

Two figures stepped into the room—Father Damianos and Father Gregorios. Theodore rose from his chair, nodding to his trusted priests as they gathered around the table. Their expressions were tight with concern, shadows dancing across their faces as the fire flickered low.

Father Damianos was the first to speak, his voice barely a whisper. "The Latin Bibles continue to flow through Glarentza, Despot Theodore. The men of your brother are emboldened. They speak of progress, yet they mean heresy."

Theodore paced slowly, his fingers brushing along the cool stone of the chamber wall. He glanced at Alexios, who gave a slight nod.

"We foresaw this," Theodore said, his voice calm yet firm. "My brother's obsession with uniting East and West grows with each passing day, and the Emperor lends him support. But this cannot endure." He turned to face them, eyes flashing. "We must act with haste."

Father Gregorios, always the more cautious of the two, shifted uncomfortably. "The clergy is divided, my Lord. There are many who share your concern, but so long as the Emperor endorses this union, they will not move openly. The Church is too fractured."

Theodore's frustration simmered just beneath the surface. "We require not all of them," he replied sharply. "Merely enough. We shall call for a secret ecclesiastical investigation—quietly, behind closed doors. We will declare these Latin Bibles heretical. Let the people witness what my brother inflicts upon our faith."

Alexios stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "There are new rumors, my Lord. It is said that a Greek version of the Holy Scriptures is being prepared, offered at prices lower than the Latin texts, with promises to gift some freely to local priests and monasteries. Constantine intends to embed this even deeper into the hearts of our people."

Theodore paused, his mind briefly torn. A Greek version? This was different. Not heresy, yet cunning. Constantine was adapting, finding ways to neutralise the anti unionists, who would have rejected anything foreign. Theodore clenched his jaw.

"He is shrewd indeed," Theodore admitted grudgingly, his tone low. "A Greek version... it is a cunning move. He maneuvers deftly against us, making it harder for the people to resist. The Church will not dismiss it readily now."

Father Damianos frowned, his brows furrowing in frustration. "What benefit is there if the people are led astray, regardless of the tongue?"

Theodore turned, pacing the room again. "Precisely. Constantine knows the Latin version will meet resistance, so he cloaks it under the guise of Orthodoxy by employing Greek. He renders it familiar, acceptable. It is a strategic move, one that will only strengthen his hand among the undecided."

Father Gregorios shifted in his seat, his tone thoughtful rather than alarmed. "A Greek version will make it more difficult for those loyal to tradition to resist. It is not heresy, but he brings change through stealth."

Theodore nodded, his expression hardening. "Indeed. He does not alter the faith itself, but he weaves his influence into the very fabric of the empire. If the people accept this, they will see no reason to oppose him—and soon, they will accept all else he brings."

Father Damianos frowned. "He disarms the anti unionists with subtlety. If they behold the Holy Scriptures in their own tongue, many will no longer question its origins or the implications."

Theodore resumed pacing, the gears turning in his mind. "That is why we must act without delay, before he tightens his grip on the undecided and sways the majority. We cannot allow him to consolidate power through these means."

"And that is not all," Alexios continued. "Merchants from Venice and Genoa flock to Glarentza in large numbers. Constantine has been selling these Bibles to them, and he is amassing great wealth from it."

Father Damianos's eyes widened with indignation. "He sells our very faith for gold.”

Alexios nodded grimly. "They say the sales are flourishing. Venice and Genoa are eager buyers, and Constantine has gathered considerable riches from these dealings."

Theodore stopped pacing, gripping the back of his chair, his knuckles turning white. "He enriches himself at the peril of the Roman soul. And the people—how long before they, too, fall under this influence?"

Father Gregorios leaned in, his voice even lower. "There is something else, Despot. Word has reached us of something strange. Constantine has ordered cannons."

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Theodore frowned. "Cannons?"

"Yes, my Lord," Alexios confirmed. "But Constantine's intentions are unclear. What does he intend to do with them? Is he preparing for war? A siege?"

Theodore's mind raced. Why would Constantine need such weapons? These are siege engines—the Venetians and Ottomans use them for sieges. He turned back to Alexios. "Are you certain?"

"Absolutely, my Lord. Several ones have been crafted, though the specifics remain obscure," Alexios replied. "It is not just the Bibles, Despot. Constantine may be preparing for something larger, something we do not fully comprehend."

The room fell into a tense silence, the implications of Alexios's words weighing heavily on them all. Finally, Theodore spoke, his voice filled with grim resolve. "If Constantine believes he can reshape this empire with foreign ideas and engines of war, he is gravely mistaken. We shall stop him."

Father Damianos exchanged a look with Alexios, hesitant but resolute. "Do we have men capable of this, Despot?"

Alexios nodded. "We have agents in Glarentza who can move against him. One of them, a monk sympathetic to our cause, works within the printing press itself. He is well-placed to act when needed."

Theodore straightened, his resolve hardening. "Good. Begin preparations to sabotage the press. But do so quietly. If this fails, it must not be traced back to us."

Father Petros had been working quietly at the printing press for a month now. With the rapid construction of new presses in Glarentza, more labor was needed, and it wasn’t difficult for him to secure a position among the workers. He kept a low profile, blending in with the other scribes and attendants, carefully watching, waiting for the right moment.

By day, he fed paper and tended to the machinery. The hum of the presses never ceased as Latin Bibles—Constantine’s prized Latin texts—rolled off the line in greater numbers each day. Every sheet felt like a betrayal, but Petros kept his emotions hidden behind a mask of quiet diligence. The Latin Bibles were spreading like wildfire, and Constantine's influence with them. Petros knew he had to act.

One evening, as the workshop began to empty and the night attendants took their places, Petros finished his shift as usual. He made a show of gathering his tools, chatting briefly with a fellow worker before leaving the building. The cool night air met his face as he walked down the dimly lit street. He counted his steps, knowing he would need to return soon. He paused near the end of the road, turning to glance back at the press. The time had come.

Feigning forgetfulness, Petros retraced his steps toward the workshop. "I left my tools inside," he muttered to the guard at the entrance, keeping his voice casual. The guard, barely paying attention, waved him in. Once inside, Petros moved quickly. The building was nearly empty, only a few workers and a handful of guards nearby, none of them paying attention to him.

He made his way to the storage area, where stacks of paper and ink barrels were piled high.From beneath his robe, he pulled a small flask of oil and a flint. His hands shook slightly as he began to pour the oil onto the stacks of paper, soaking the edges.

Just as he was about to strike the flint to ignite the flames, a firm voice broke the silence.

“Hold, wretch!”

Petros froze, his heart pounding in his chest. A guard stood at the entrance of the storage room, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene—the oil-soaked paper, the flask in Petros's hand.

“What mischief do you plot?” the guard demanded, stepping forward with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Petros's mind raced. "I... I merely sought—"

"treachery," the guard interrupted. "You're trying to burn down the workshop!"

Before Petros could respond, the guard seized him by the arm. "You're coming with me."

As the guard led him out of the storage area, other workers and guards were alerted by the commotion. They glanced at Petros with suspicion and whispered among themselves.

The guard addressed them loudly. "This man was found in the act of treason, seeking to set fire to the workshop!"

A murmur of shock rippled through the small crowd. Petros kept his gaze downward, realizing that his mission had failed before it even began.

Clermont Castle

The cold stone walls of the dungeon beneath Clermont Castle were damp and silent, save for the occasional echo of distant footsteps. Father Petros sat hunched in a dark cell, his wrists bound with iron chains, his robe torn and soiled. He had been in the dungeon for days, refusing to speak despite the repeated questions. His silence infuriated Theophilos.

The heavy door creaked open, and Theophilos entered, flanked by two guards. His expression was unreadable as he stared down at the monk. Petros’ face was pale, his body weakened by the cold and lack of food, but his eyes still held a glint of defiance.

Theophilos nodded to one of the guards, who stepped forward with a bundle of tools. The room fell silent as the guard unrolled the cloth, revealing the gleaming metal of the instruments. Byzantine interrogation was known for its brutal efficiency.

“You’ve been loyal to your cause,” Theophilos said calmly, stepping closer to Petros. “But even the most loyal men have their limits. Who sent you? Who commands you?”

Petros remained silent, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Theophilos watched him for a moment, then nodded to the guards. Without hesitation, they moved in, grabbing Petros by the shoulders and pulling him to the floor.

The next hours were filled with the sounds of iron tools and muffled cries. Petros' body was wracked with pain, but still, he refused to speak. No matter how much agony he endured, he kept his silence. Sweat dripped down his face, and his vision blurred, but in his mind, he prayed to God for strength.

Theophilos stood over him, arms crossed, his expression cold and unmoving. "You’ve held out longer than I expected. Impressive, but it won’t save you."

Petros looked up, his lips barely able to form the words. “I serve God, not men.”

Theophilos sighed, motioning to the guards to stop. "You leave me no choice."

With a swift motion, one of the guards stepped forward, delivering a fatal blow to Petros’ temple. The monk’s body went limp, the fight finally leaving him. The room fell into a heavy silence.

Theophilos turned to the guards. “Dispose of the body. He may have kept his silence, but we will find the ones responsible for this.”

As the guards moved to lift the body, Theophilos’ eyes caught something clutched in Petros’ hand.

“Stop,” he commanded, stepping closer to examine it.

The monk’s lifeless fingers were curled tightly around a komvoskini, the prayer rope still wrapped around his hand. Theophilos knelt and carefully uncurled the dead man’s fingers, revealing the intricately woven rope.

He turned it over in his hands, recognizing the specific style immediately—a design he had seen before. It was made in the exact manner used at a monastery in Mystras, known for its staunchly anti-union stance.

Theophilos’ expression darkened as he held the komvoskini, the significance of the find sinking in. This wasn’t just a lone monk acting on misguided zeal. He had ties to the anti-union faction.

As Theophilos stood over the dead monk, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the dungeon walls, a new thought took root. The conspiracy went deeper than just one man. And now he had a lead.