The sun, a cold and indifferent observer, rose over a landscape transformed. Where yesterday the plains had pulsed with the chaotic energy of battle, now a chilling stillness reigned. The silence, broken only by the croaking of ravens and the distant whinny of a stray horse, was more unsettling than the clamor of war. The air, thick with the metallic scent of blood and the cloying sweetness of decay, pressed down on Constantine like a shroud.

He stood on a slight rise, his figure a dark silhouette against the burgeoning light. Below him, the battlefield stretched out, a grotesque tapestry woven with the threads of victory and death. Ottoman bodies lay scattered across the field, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, expressions frozen in grimaces of pain or the vacant stare of oblivion. Weapons, broken and discarded, glinted amidst the carnage.

Constantine’s gaze swept over the scene, and he felt a shudder run through him. This was the price of victory, a truth he’d known intellectually but never truly grasped until now. He’d spent years reading historical novels, but nothing had prepared him for the raw, visceral impact of witnessing the aftermath firsthand.

He was no stranger to death; he'd seen it before. But this... this was different. The sheer scale of it, the casual brutality, the stark juxtaposition of life extinguished amidst the beauty of the natural world—it was a sight that tore at his soul.

Movement below caught his eye. A group of his soldiers were gathered around a fallen Ottoman, stripping him of his armor and weapons. Laughter, harsh and jarring, mingled with the clinking of metal.

"Did you see that Sipahi fly? By Hagios Demetrios, I've never seen a man go so high!" one soldier laughed, kicking aside a discarded Ottoman helmet as he bent to strip a jeweled dagger from its fallen owner.

"Those cannons, though! Like thunder from the heavens, they were," another soldier exclaimed, wiping sweat and soot from his brow as he rummaged through a saddlebag. "And those Pyrvelos! Heard the Akıncı squeal like stuck pigs when those shots rang out. They won't be forgetting Morea anytime soon."

Constantine knew this looting was customary, a brutal reward for victory, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that twisted in his gut. He averted his gaze, focusing instead on the distant horizon, where the first rays of the sun were painting the sky in hues of rose and gold.

A shadow fell beside him. He turned to see Captain Andreas, his face grim but resolute. "A decisive victory, Despot," Andreas said, his voice low and respectful.

"Indeed," Constantine replied, his voice flat, devoid of the triumph he should have felt.

Andreas followed his gaze to the scene below. "The men are eager for their spoils," he remarked.

"Yes," Constantine agreed, forcing a nod. But even as he acknowledged the necessity, the pragmatism of war, a part of him—the part that still clung to the ideals of a different world—recoiled.

"The scouts have returned, Despot," Andreas continued, snapping Constantine out of his contemplation. His captain's voice, rough but steady, was a grounding presence in the surreal landscape. "No sign of the enemy."

Constantine turned to face him, drawing a deep breath of the cold, crisp air. It did little to dispel the cloying stench of the battlefield, but it helped clear his head. "So they've fled?"

"Aye," Andreas confirmed, a grim satisfaction in his tone. "Likely back to the Hexamilion. Turahan Bey won't risk another encounter in the Morea. Not after this." He gestured with a sweep of his arm toward the carnage sprawled before them.

Constantine nodded, feeling a surge of pride mixed with a weary sense of relief. The victory had been a testament to the changes he’d implemented. He'd drilled the troops relentlessly, instilling discipline and tactical awareness. He'd introduced field cannons and the Pyrvelos, those rudimentary muskets that had taken so much time and resources to develop but had proven devastatingly effective against the Ottoman cavalry charge.

He'd risked everything on this battle, and it had paid off. But at what cost? The faces of the dead, both his own men and the enemy, haunted him.

"What of the prisoners, my Despot?" Andreas asked, his voice drawing Constantine back to the present. The question hung in the air, stark and unavoidable.

Constantine's jaw tightened. "See to it that the enemy wounded are... dealt with," he said, his voice cold, his gaze fixed on the distant mountains—a chilling acceptance of the brutal necessities of this era. Survival, he was learning, often demanded ruthlessness.

Andreas met his gaze, a flicker of understanding passing between them. He offered a curt nod. "It shall be done, Despot." He paused, then added, "The men are ready to march. We should reach Kalavryta by nightfall."

Constantine looked back at the battlefield, the scene seared into his memory. This was his world now, a world where victory and death were intertwined, where the line between right and wrong blurred amidst the dust and blood.

"Then let us go," he said, his voice resolute, masking the turmoil that churned within.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the rolling hills as Constantine's army wound its way through the Morean countryside. The rhythmic clang of armor and the steady beat of drums provided a somber soundtrack to their march. Victory's elation had faded, replaced by a weary sense of duty and the ever-present weight of responsibility.

Constantine rode at the head of the column, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. He'd sent scouts ahead to Kalavryta to inform Thomas of their approach and assess the situation. Until then, every rustle of leaves, every cry of a distant bird, sent a jolt of tension through him. He'd tasted victory against Turahan Bey, but he knew the Ottoman threat was far from over.

They were a few hours from Kalavryta when a rider approached from the vanguard, his horse lathered and his expression urgent. It was Demetrios, one of Andreas's most trusted lieutenants.

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"Despot," Demetrios called out, reining in his horse beside Constantine. "We've come upon... a situation."

Constantine's brow furrowed. "Speak plainly, Demetrios. What is it?"

Demetrios hesitated, glancing at Andreas, who had ridden up beside them. "We found them in an abandoned camp, my lord. Chained and left to die. Prisoners. Turahan's doing."

"Prisoners?" Constantine repeated, a knot of apprehension tightening in his gut.

"How many?" Andreas asked, his voice sharp.

"A couple of dozen," Demetrios replied. "Mostly women and children. They... they're in bad shape, Captain."

Constantine felt a surge of anger mixed with a chilling sense of recognition.

"Bring them forward," Constantine ordered, his voice firm. "We'll take them with us to Kalavryta."

Demetrios nodded and turned his horse, riding back toward the vanguard.

Andreas watched him go, then turned back to Constantine, his brow creased with concern. "Are you certain that's wise, Despot? They could slow us down. And with Turahan still out there..."

"They're innocents, Andreas," Constantine interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. "We can't abandon them. They've suffered enough."

As the prisoners were brought forward, Constantine dismounted and moved among them, offering words of comfort and reassurance, even as he struggled to reconcile the brutality of this world with the compassion he still held within.

Most of the prisoners were huddled together, their faces etched with fear and exhaustion. Some wept silently; others stared vacantly ahead, their spirits seemingly broken. The sight pierced through the hardened shell he'd been building around himself.

His gaze fell on a young woman standing apart from the others. She was tall and slender, her dark hair cascading down her back, framing a face that was both strikingly beautiful and haunted by a depth of sorrow that chilled him. She held herself with a quiet dignity, her chin raised, her eyes—wide and expressive—fixed on him with a mixture of defiance and despair.

Something about her struck a chord within him, a faint echo of a memory from a life that felt increasingly distant. It was a fleeting image, a whisper from the past—a young woman with a similar gaze, a shared spark of intelligence and spirit. A fellow student, he recalled, a fleeting crush from his student days. A lifetime ago.

For a moment, he was transported back to his university days, recalling Emily—they had shared a few classes, stolen glances across the crowded lecture hall, and even a couple of awkward coffee dates. It was nothing serious, a fleeting connection that had faded as quickly as it had begun. But the memory of her, of that youthful innocence, stayed with him.

"What is your name?" Constantine asked, his voice softer than he'd intended.

The young woman hesitated, then spoke, her voice low and melodic, tinged with the accent of the Morea. "Maria," she replied.

He searched her face, looking for a glimmer of hope amidst the pain that shadowed her eyes. "Do you have family, Maria?" he asked gently.

Maria's gaze dropped to the ground. "They are gone," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Killed by the Ottomans. All of them."

Constantine felt a wave of sympathy wash over him, mixed with a surge of protective anger. He couldn't bring back her family, but he could offer her safety, a chance to rebuild her life.

He reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You're safe now, Maria," he said, his voice firm. "We'll take care of you."

He knew it was a promise he had to keep, not just for her, but for the part of himself that still yearned for a world where compassion triumphed over cruelty.

Continuing through the group, Constantine noticed a man who stood apart from the others. His attire was tattered but bore the remnants of scholarly garments. High cheekbones and narrow eyes suggested Tatar heritage, and despite his disheveled state, he held himself with a certain dignity.

"Who is that man?" Constantine asked a nearby soldier.

"He calls himself Iskandar, my lord," the soldier replied. "Claims to be a scholar, not a soldier."

Intrigued, Constantine approached the man. "Iskandar, is it?"

The man inclined his head respectfully. "Yes, my lord."

"You were found among the captives. Were you taken by the Ottomans as well?"

Iskandar nodded. "I was captured near Corinth. I am no soldier, merely a seeker of knowledge who found himself in unfortunate circumstances."

Constantine studied him carefully. "A seeker of knowledge, you say. What brings you to these lands?"

A hint of caution flickered in Iskandar's eyes. "I was fleeing persecution. My beliefs... are not welcomed by those in power."

"What beliefs might those be?" Constantine inquired.

Iskandar hesitated before answering. "I was a follower of Sheikh Bedreddin."

The name was unfamiliar to Constantine, but he sensed its importance. "Sheikh Bedreddin?"

Iskandar took a slow breath. "He was a philosopher and theologian who preached equality and justice. We sought to reform the empire, to bring about a society where all could prosper regardless of birth or station. More than ten years ago, we rose in rebellion, but the movement was crushed, and Bedreddin was executed."

"Are there still those who follow his teachings?" Constantine asked, his interest piqued.

"Yes," Iskandar admitted. "Scattered across Anatolia, there are many who quietly hold to his ideals, waiting for a chance to bring about change."

A strategic possibility began to form in Constantine's mind. "Your knowledge could be valuable," he said thoughtfully. "Would you be willing to share more of this with me?"

Iskandar met his gaze steadily. "That would depend on your intentions, my lord. I have no desire to see more bloodshed for empty promises."

"I seek to protect my people and secure a future free from oppression," Constantine replied.

Later, as they were preparing to move again, Constantine sought out George Sphrantzes, pulling him aside from the bustling activity of the camp.

"George, I have met someone who may be of great use to us," he began.

"Oh?" George raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"A man named Iskandar—a scholar and former follower of Sheikh Bedreddin."

"Sheikh Bedreddin?" George repeated. "I'm not familiar with him."

"Neither am I," Constantine admitted. "But Iskandar told me about a significant uprising within the Ottoman Empire a few years ago—a movement seeking social reform and equality, which was suppressed. He mentioned that there are still followers of this movement in Anatolia."

George's eyes widened slightly. "If there are discontented groups within the Ottoman territories, that could be advantageous."

"Exactly," Constantine agreed. "If we could find a way to support or encourage another uprising, it might distract the Ottomans, dividing their focus and resources."

"Such an endeavor would require careful planning," George cautioned. "And considerable time."

"I understand," Constantine said. "But it's an opportunity we cannot ignore. Iskandar could be the key to reaching these groups."

"I will begin looking into this discreetly," George assured him. "We must tread carefully."

"Indeed," Constantine affirmed. "In the meantime, ensure that Iskandar is treated well but kept under watch. Trust must be earned."

"Agreed," George replied.

As the army began its march toward Kalavryta, Constantine rode alongside Captain Andreas. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and the creak of wagon wheels filled the air, a steady accompaniment to his contemplative mood.

"You've made quite an impact on the prisoners," Andreas remarked.

Constantine glanced at him. "It's the least I could do."

"Not all leaders would show such compassion," Andreas noted.

"Compassion doesn't weaken authority," Constantine replied. "If anything, it strengthens it by fostering loyalty."

They rode in silence for a few moments before Andreas spoke again. "This scholar you've taken an interest in—Iskandar. Do you trust him?"

"Trust is earned," Constantine replied. "But his knowledge could provide us with a significant advantage."

"Using internal strife to our benefit," Andreas mused. "It's a bold strategy."

"Boldness may be required if we are to survive," Constantine said. "We must explore every opportunity."

Andreas offered a slight smile. "You think differently than most, my lord."

"Is that a problem?" Constantine asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not at all," Andreas assured him. "Perhaps it's exactly what we need."