Glarentza, May 1430

The sea breeze carried the familiar scent of salt and promise as the Kyrenia glided gracefully into the bustling port of Glarentza. Sunlight danced on the gentle waves, casting shimmering reflections upon the ships anchored nearby. The harbor was alive with activity—sailors shouted orders as they unloaded cargo, merchants haggled over prices, and laughter mingled with the creaking of wooden masts. Michael stood at the bow, his cloak billowing softly in the wind, a faint smile playing on his lips. The sight of his city thriving filled his heart with a rare warmth; the once quiet port now teemed with life, a testament to the progress they had painstakingly achieved.

As the gangplank was thudded onto the dock, a small contingent of guards in polished armor formed a respectful line. At their head stood Theophilus Dragas, his robes deep black. His stern face softened as he caught sight of Michael, and he stepped forward with a measured grace befitting his station.

"Welcome home, Despot Constantine," Theophilus said, bowing deeply. His voice carried a note of genuine relief. "Your return brings joy to us all. Was your journey prosperous?"

Michael descended the gangplank, his boots meeting the solid ground with a sense of familiarity. He clasped Theophilus's outstretched hand warmly. "Indeed, Theophilus. The voyage was fruitful, though not without its trials. It gladdens me to see Glarentza so full of vigor."

Theophilus gestured toward the bustling marketplace beyond. "Trade has indeed flourished in your absence, my Despot. The demand for our bibles surpasses all expectations. Merchants from distant lands arrive daily, eager to partake in our offerings."

Michael's gaze swept over the harbor, taking in the colorful awnings of the stalls and the lively crowd. "It is as we hoped," he mused, his eyes reflecting a mix of satisfaction and contemplation. "Our endeavors begin to bear fruit."

A subtle tension flickered across Theophilus's features. "There is much to discuss, my Despot. Matters of import have arisen during your travels."

Michael raised an eyebrow, his expression turning serious. "Has something occurred?"

Theophilus hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Perhaps it is best if we speak within the council chamber. Some matters are best discussed away from prying ears."

Michael nodded slowly, a hint of concern edging into his voice. "Very well. Lead the way."

As they rode through the winding streets toward the castle of Clermont, the guards formed a discreet escort, their eyes vigilant. Mounted atop their horses, Michael led the way with Theophilus beside him, his demeanor composed but inwardly unsettled. George rode on Michael's other side, his gaze steady and watchful. The clip-clop of hooves echoed off the stone buildings, mingling with the distant murmur of the bustling city. Michael sensed the unease in Theophilus but held his questions, knowing the time for answers would come soon enough.

Reaching the castle gates, they passed beneath the archway adorned with the Roman double-headed eagle. The guards saluted smartly as they entered the cool shadows of the courtyard.

Inside the council chamber, the atmosphere shifted. Tall candles dimly lit the chamber, flames flickering against the stone walls adorned with maps and paintings. Petros, the steward, busied himself with a stack of parchments, glancing up as they entered.

"Despot," Petros greeted, bowing respectfully. "It is good to see you returned safely."

"Thank you, Petros,” Michael replied, taking his seat at the head of the table. "It seems there is much to discuss."

"Indeed," Petros exchanged a glance with Theophilus. "There have been... developments."

Michael folded his hands, his gaze steady. "Then let us not delay further. Speak plainly."

Theophilus took a breath. "While you and George were in Ragusa, an incident occurred at the printing press. A monk attempted to set fire to our paper storeroom. Fortunately, one of the guards apprehended him before significant damage was done."

Michael's eyes narrowed. "A deliberate act of sabotage?"

"It appears so," Theophilus confirmed. "He was caught with oil and a flint. Only a small portion of our already limited paper stock was ruined."

Michael leaned back, absorbing the information. "Was he interrogated?"

Theophilus hesitated. "He was, my lord, but he revealed little. Regrettably, he did not survive the questioning."

A silence settled over the room. Michael's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "I see. Do we know if he acted alone?"

"We cannot be certain," Theophilus interjected. "But it's unlikely he orchestrated this without influence. There may be others who share his intent."

Petros stepped forward, his youthful face marked with concern. "Despot, if I may—this act coincides with whispers among the workers. Some speak of discontent, fueled by anti-unionists who oppose the unification of the two churches. They consider the production of a Latin Bible to be heresy."

Michael regarded him thoughtfully. “I see; that could explain the sabotage attempt."

He paused, then continued, "Speaking of which, how does the development of the metal letters for the Greek version of the scriptures progress?"

Theophilus sighed softly. "It still requires considerable refinement, my Despot. We have devoted much of our effort to the Latin typeset to meet the overwhelming demand for the Latin Bibles. Our resources have been stretched thin."

Michael nodded, his gaze distant for a moment. "I understand the constraints, but we must advance the Greek printing. Providing scriptures in our own tongue may alleviate some of the tensions and counter the claims of heresy."

Theophilus inclined his head. "You are right, Despot. We will redouble our efforts on the Greek typesetting. However, it will take time to perfect the characters."

"Do what you must," Michael said firmly. "Allocate additional resources if needed. The unity and support of our people depend on it."

Theophilus exchanged a determined glance with Petros. "It shall be done."

Michael surveyed the faces of his council. "We cannot dismiss the possibility of outside interference, especially from those who fear the changes we bring. Strengthen our security measures, and remain vigilant. Our work is too important to be undermined by fear and ignorance."

"Agreed," George said. "We will ensure that all precautions are taken."

"On a related matter," Petros continued, "the cotton shortage has halted our paper production. The supplies you procured from Ragusa will allow us to resume, but it will take time to reach previous levels."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Michael's gaze softened slightly. "The demand for our books remains high?”

"Exceedingly so," Theophilus replied with a hint of a smile. "We have over a thousand orders, many with payments made in advance. Clients are eager, some even offering bonuses for priority."

A faint glimmer of satisfaction crossed Michael's face. "Then we must not disappoint them. Allocate resources accordingly to meet the demand as swiftly as possible."

Theophilus shifted his weight, his expression turning somber. "There is more, Despot. News has reached us that Thessalonica has fallen to the Ottomans."

Michael felt a cold weight settle in his chest. "Thessalonica... Are we certain?"

"Yes," Theophilus affirmed. "The city, succumbed after the prolonged siege. The Ottomans now hold it firmly."

Memories of Constantine stirred within Michael—Thessalonica, its vibrant markets and towering churches. A city rich in history, now under the shadow of the crescent.

"The loss is profound," Michael murmured.

He took a deep breath before continuing. "While in Parga, I received word that Ioannina has fallen too. Carlo II Tocco could not hold against the Ottoman advance."

A murmur of concern rippled through the council members. George exchanged a grave look with Theophilus.

"The Ottomans are relentless," George said quietly. "Their reach extends further each day."

Petros nodded solemnly. "Thessalonica and now Ioannina... The threat draws ever closer to our borders."

"Indeed," Theophilus agreed. "On a positive note, two more Drakos cannons were successfully cast during your absence. Our total now stands at sixteen. Progress with the handguns continues, albeit slowly."

Michael met his gaze. "Every advantage we can muster may prove decisive. Ensure that the craftsmen have all they require."

He paused, his thoughts turning inward for a moment. "There is another matter that requires our attention."

George nodded knowingly. "The young Venetian."

"Yes," Michael confirmed. "His interest in our cannons and operations was more than mere curiosity. It could compromise our position if he carries tales back to Venice."

Theophilus exchanged a concerned look with George. "What course of action do you propose, my Despot?”

Michael's eyes flickered with a hint of anger. "We cannot allow our innovations to fall into potentially hostile hands. Discretion is paramount, but he must be prevented from reporting what he has seen."

George spoke carefully. "An unfortunate accident could be arranged. It must be handled delicately to avoid arousing suspicion among the Venetians."

Michael exhaled slowly, "Proceed, but ensure no trace leads back to us."

"Understood," George affirmed solemnly.

A somber silence settled over the council. Michael surveyed the faces around him—loyal men, each bearing the burdens of their roles. He felt the isolation of leadership keenly in that moment.

That evening, the castle's great hall was filled with the warm glow of candlelight and the gentle hum of conversation. Michael hosted a dinner for the esteemed traders who had journeyed to Glarentza, their faces a mix of cultures and backgrounds. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, and the air was fragrant with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine.

As the courses were served, Michael moved among his guests, engaging in earnest dialogue. He found himself seated beside Benedetto Gentile Pevere, a seasoned Genoese merchant and diplomat whose keen eyes missed little.

"Your city is quite the sensation, Despot Constantine," Benedetto remarked, swirling the wine in his goblet. "It seems to thrive even as shadows loom elsewhere."

Benedetto remarked, swirling the wine in his goblet. "It seems to flourish even as shadows loom elsewhere."

Michael modestly inclined his head. "We aim to create a haven of learning and trade, where prosperity can thrive despite the turbulence beyond our borders."

Benedetto nodded appreciatively. "A noble endeavor. News travels swiftly along the trade routes. Have you heard of the remarkable events unfolding in the Kingdom of France?"

Michael arched an eyebrow, feigning polite curiosity. "I confess, my focus has been consumed by matters here. What news do you bring?"

"A peasant girl, scarcely seventeen, has risen to prominence," Benedetto said, his voice tinged with amazement. "They call her Joan of Arc. She claims to be guided by divine visions and has rallied the French forces. Remarkably, she lifted the siege of Orléans and has led them to several victories against the English."

Michael felt a jolt run through him, though he maintained a composed exterior. "A peasant girl leading armies? Truly, these are extraordinary times."

"Indeed," Benedetto agreed. "Some say she is a saint, others a sorceress. Regardless, her impact is undeniable. The tides of war shift under her banner."

Michael sipped his wine thoughtfully. The name Joan of Arc resonated deeply within him—a figure from his own historical knowledge now living and breathing in this world. It was a humbling reminder of history unfolding around him.

"It is a tale that inspires," he mused aloud. "A testament to the unexpected paths that fate may weave."

Benedetto observed him shrewdly. "You speak as one who understands the weight of destiny."

Michael met his gaze evenly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply recognize the power of conviction in uncertain times."

Their conversation drifted to other matters, but Michael's thoughts lingered on Joan of Arc. The convergence of his past life's knowledge with present realities stirred a mix of awe and introspection.

Later, as the moon cast a silver glow over the quiet courtyards, Michael stood alone on the balcony of his chambers.

Footsteps approached softly behind him. Without turning, he spoke. "Is it done?"

George's voice was steady and direct. "Yes, Despot. The young Venetian met with misfortune by the harbor. Witnesses saw him slip into the water. A tragic accident."

Michael gazed out over the sleeping city, his expression inscrutable. "Good," he replied coolly. "One less complication to contend with."

George studied him momentarily, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. "You seem untroubled by this course of action."

Michael turned to face him, his gaze sharp and unyielding. "Trouble serves no purpose, George. Decisions must be made, and actions taken. Hesitation is a luxury we cannot afford."

A flicker of concern crossed George's face. "I recall a time when such measures weighed heavily upon you."

Michael's lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Times change, and so do we. The world grows harsher by the day. Adaptation is the key to survival."

George hesitated before speaking again. "When we first arrived in Glarentza, I must admit, I was perplexed by your sudden changes—the grand plans, the selling of your lands in Constantinople, recruiting craftsmen, and the creation of that machine for books. It was... unlike the man I thought I knew."

Michael raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "Is that so?"

"Yes," George continued cautiously. "But now, seeing all that you've accomplished here, I begin to understand. This move to Glarentza has transformed you. You've become more decisive, wiser—like a man who carries the weight of many more years."

Michael regarded him thoughtfully. "Perhaps the challenges we've faced have necessitated a different approach. Experience can be a great teacher."

George nodded slowly. "It's as if you've lived a lifetime beyond your years."

Michael's gaze drifted back to the horizon, where the stars pierced the night sky. Internally, he couldn't help but reflect on George's words. If only you knew, he thought. Transposed from his own time at fifty-five into this younger body, he indeed carried the weight of another lifetime's experiences.

"Every step we've taken has been toward securing our future," Michael said aloud. "Sentimentality has no place in the face of existential threats."

George studied him, a mixture of respect and unease in his eyes. "I see that now. Your clarity of purpose is... formidable."

"Clarity is born from necessity," Michael replied dismissively. "We stand on the precipice of great change. Only those willing to do what is required will prevail."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them before George ventured cautiously, "Your vision for the Morea is bold, Despot. Not many would dare to dream so greatly."

Michael met his gaze directly. "Boldness is the only path forward. The timid have no place in the annals of history."

George inclined his head. "You have my unwavering support. I am honored to serve alongside you."

"You are like a brother to me."

“I am honoured, my despot,” George agreed softly. "Rest well."

As George's footsteps retreated into the shadows, Michael remained on the balcony, the cool breeze brushing against his face. He felt no remorse for the Venetian's fate—only a detached acceptance. The man had been a threat, and threats needed to be eliminated. It was a simple equation.

Sentiment is a weakness I can no longer afford. The path to power is paved with difficult choices.

Let them see me as they wish—a visionary, a tyrant, a stranger. It matters not. What matters is that I succeed.

Simple as that.

Michael stood silently, his mind drifting to Joan of Arc, a peasant girl who had defied empires. She believed she was chosen to liberate her people—destiny woven into the very fabric of her existence.

But what of him? Could the same be true for him? Was he destined for more, or were these just the illusions of a man grasping at power? What if that’s my purpose here? The question echoed in his mind, louder this time, insistent. His thoughts turned to the stories his Yaya had told him as a child—tales of the Marmaromenos Vasilias, the "Marble Emperor," who would rise again to save Byzantium in its darkest hour. Could it be? Was he the one fated to fulfill that prophecy? Am I the Marmaromenos Vasilias?

He clenched his fists, feeling the strength of Constantine’s body in every muscle and sinew. I am Constantine Palaiologos.