The sun dipped low over the rugged hills surrounding Kalavryta, casting long shadows on the ancient walls of the town. Constantine rode at the head of his column, his army in tow, victorious from their recent triumph over Turahan Bey. At the gates, Thomas Palaiologos, his younger brother, stood tall, waiting to receive him. The landscape of Kalavryta was a fortress of nature itself—nestled in the mountains, the town overlooked vital passes, its strategic importance as clear as the rolling mists that drifted between the peaks.

The brothers greeted each other with a mix of warmth and formality, their familial bond deep but colored by the pressures of rule and warfare. Thomas, ever animated, clasped Constantine’s arm, his face flushed with excitement over the recent victory.

"Brother," Thomas grinned, "you have outwitted Turahan! The new weapons... they were more effective than we had dared to hope."

Constantine nodded, his face betraying a mixture of pride and the weight of responsibility. Behind him, George Sphrantzes and Captain Andreas dismounted, exchanging knowing glances. They both understood that the true battle was yet to come.

As they entered the halls of Kalavryta, Thomas introduced his advisors, a gathering of local lords and military commanders. The atmosphere buzzed with optimism, yet Constantine could not shake a growing unease. Victory had come, but the Ottoman threat was far from over.

The next day, Constantine and Thomas convened a war council in the great hall of the castle of Kalavryta. The room, dimly lit by flickering torches, was filled with the sound of murmured conversations. The tables were strewn with maps and reports, detailing recent intelligence from the Ottoman forces and from spies scattered throughout the Morea.

George Sphrantzes stood beside Constantine, ready to brief the council on the diplomatic situation, while Captain Andreas, with his grizzled features and warrior’s posture, loomed near the hearth, eyes fixed on the maps before him.

The council began with a review of the recent engagement.

"Turahan Bey has retreated and is heading back to the Hexamilion," Thomas started, his voice calm but resolute. "We have received reports confirming this."

"Our forces decimated his ranks. He will have to regroup. Murad II will not leave such a defeat unanswered, though," Constantine replied.

A silence followed, only to be broken by Thomas, who leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "How long do we have before Murad can send another army?"

Captain Andreas spoke up, his deep voice carrying the weight of many campaigns. "Months, perhaps. Turahan's forces have fallen back, but the Hexamilion Wall is still vulnerable. They will come through the Isthmus of Corinth and the wall again. We must strengthen our defenses there."

The murmur of voices quieted as Constantine leaned over the map, tracing the lines that marked the Hexamilion Wall. Thomas sat across from him, his expression taut with conviction.

“The wall is in poor condition. We must begin repairs immediately," Thomas insisted, his eyes scanning the faces of the commanders and nobles. "A delay would be disastrous. Every day that passes weakens our chances of holding back another attack."

Murmurs of agreement rose from several commanders, their faces alight with the victory over Turahan’s forces. One, a younger commander named Kallistos, spoke up, his voice eager. "Let us press the advantage, Despot. If we pursue Turahan now, strike while his men retreat, we could weaken his ranks even further. Give him no chance to regroup."

Constantine held up a hand, calling for silence. He could feel the heady rush of victory around him, but his mind ran the numbers—supplies, soldiers, time. "Our resources are strained, and our men exhausted. Pursuing them would leave us exposed, and we can’t risk drawing Murad II’s wrath prematurely."

The council stilled, but a seasoned noble seated near the end of the table leaned forward. "With respect, Despot," the noble began, his voice steady but questioning, "are we certain the Ottoman forces will regroup so soon? They’ve been hit hard. Wouldn’t Murad II hesitate, perhaps even delay, after such a loss?"

Constantine met the noble’s gaze, his jaw tightening slightly. "Murad II has resources to draw upon that we cannot fathom. His pride alone would demand retribution."

A hush fell, broken only by the crackling of torches. George Sphrantzes, ever cautious, cleared his throat and added, "While strengthening the wall is essential, we must also ensure we do not overextend ourselves. We risk provoking the Ottomans' wrath, yes, but there is also the matter of Theodore. Mystras has yet to send reinforcements, and their silence may hinder any large-scale operations."

Thomas scoffed, barely containing his frustration. "Mystras cannot be relied upon; we know that now. I say we act with the strength we have. Why wait for aid that will never come?"

A ripple of discomfort passed through the room. Constantine noticed the elder noble exchange a glance with Kallistos. "If we strain our coffers too far, Despot," the noble said carefully, "we may find ourselves defending a fortified wall with empty hands and hungry men."

The words hung in the air, and Constantine felt the eyes of the room upon him. He straightened, his gaze sweeping over the table. "I understand your concerns," he said, his voice steady but laced with authority. "But the cost of inaction will be far greater. We can rebuild our coffers, replenish supplies—but a broken wall leaves us defenseless."

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The tension remained, but the room grew still, the council sensing the finality in Constantine’s tone. Thomas nodded, his expression resolute, while others shared glances, some reluctant but unwilling to challenge him further.

"We will fortify the Hexamilion Wall," Constantine continued, his gaze unwavering. "And if we need resources, I am prepared to sacrifice what is necessary from my personal coffers. Our future depends on our strength, not on treasures gathering dust."

A soft murmur rose at this, but Constantine pressed forward. "The time for debate has ended. The decision is made. We will move toward the Hexamilion Wall, inspect the damage, and begin selective fortifications."

As the council broke, Constantine motioned for George Sphrantzes and Captain Andreas to join him near a corner of the room. The warm light of a nearby brazier cast deep shadows on their faces, lending a somber air to their conversation.

"We’ll inspect the Hexamilion Wall," Constantine began, his voice low and firm. "Once we’re there, we’ll decide our next steps. But make no mistake—we can’t afford to simply camp there, waiting. We need to be ready for anything, even moving against Theodore.”

George frowned, his expression troubled. "Theodore may not openly oppose us, but his actions speak volumes. If he takes advantage of our focus on the wall, Glarentza will be left vulnerable."

Constantine nodded grimly. "Exactly. We can’t leave our cities exposed. If Theodore does move against us, we may have to act sooner—either to press him or reinforce Glarentza."

The men exchanged tense glances, each aware of the precarious situation. After a moment, Andreas broke the silence. "We need more men," he said bluntly, leaning forward on the table. "Our new pike formations need reinforcements, and if we’re to hold the wall or march on Theodore, we’ll need more gunpowder for the cannons and Pyrvelos. As it stands, we have enough for one major engagement, maybe two."

Constantine’s brow furrowed. "Recruitment is slow, and we can’t afford to wait. We may need to consider hiring mercenaries."

George hesitated, his gaze thoughtful. "Italian mercenaries will fight for coin, but their loyalty is as thin as the gold we give them. Mercenaries could bring their own problems."

"We’re stretched too thin," Constantine replied, his tone resolute. "We’ll use the profits from our book sales to fund this if necessary. Our future hangs on our strength."

George considered this and then nodded. "We could also recruit more local men from the rest of the Morea—promise them salaries and integrate them into our standing army. There are young men in every village who would be eager to join our ranks, especially after hearing about our victory."

Constantine’s eyes brightened slightly. "That’s an option worth exploring. We can rally the people if they see us investing in the defense of the land itself." He paused, glancing between George and Andreas. "But before we finalize anything, we need to assess the wall. Let’s see what state it’s in before committing to an all-out recruitment."

The three men stood in silence, each calculating the risks and resources required. Constantine could feel the weight of the decisions pressing upon him, yet his resolve remained firm.

Dusk had settled over Kalavryta, the last rays of sunlight casting a warm glow across the rugged mountains. The air was thick with the hum of soldiers preparing for departure, their voices low and weary as they gathered supplies and tended to the horses. Constantine slipped away from the activity, his steps quiet as he made his way through the winding corridors of the fortress. He knew exactly where he would find her.

Maria was in the gardens by the old well, her slender frame bent over a bundle of herbs she was carefully sorting. She didn’t hear him approach, so intent on her work, until his shadow stretched over her. She looked up, her dark eyes widening slightly, though a soft smile soon spread across her face.

"Despot," she murmured, inclining her head respectfully.

Constantine chuckled softly and shook his head. "I thought we agreed you’d call me Constantine when we’re alone."

Her smile grew, but she didn’t answer, only rising to her feet and dusting off her skirts. "You’re leaving tomorrow?"

He nodded, glancing over his shoulder, as though he could see the entire army waiting in the distant courtyard. "Yes. To the Hexamilion Wall. There’s much to repair and even more to guard.

Maria’s expression grew thoughtful as she gathered the herbs in her hands. "And you’re uncertain," she said softly, more a statement than a question

Constantine met her gaze, surprised as always by the quiet understanding she seemed to have of him. "It’s not the uncertainty that troubles me, but the cost," he admitted. "Every battle, every wall we fortify, every strategy we devise... it all feels as if it’s slipping from our grasp, no matter how hard we fight to hold it."

Maria stepped closer, a gentleness in her movements as she placed her hand on his arm. "You fight because you have to, not because you wish to."

"Yes," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "But sometimes, I wish I could leave it all behind. Just go somewhere no one knows my name, where I’m not bound by crowns or titles."

Maria’s hand tightened slightly on his arm, and she looked down, her expression quiet and contemplative. "There’s a place like that. For people like us, it’s everywhere," she said with a faint smile. "You’re the one who has to choose it."

Constantine chuckled softly, the sound filled with both weariness and warmth. "A place like that, with someone like you," he murmured, his hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together. Her hands were calloused, rough from years of labor, and the simplicity of her touch grounded him in a way nothing else could.

A faint blush colored her cheeks, but she met his gaze, her eyes holding a mixture of affection and restraint. "You speak of dreams, Constantine. And tomorrow, you’ll go to war."

He exhaled, his gaze drifting to the horizon. "But when this is over... I want you with me. I want to take you back to Glarentza."

Maria’s face softened, and she lowered her gaze to their joined hands, her voice barely audible. "I am a peasant, Constantine. You have a kingdom to rule and a people to protect. Perhaps... perhaps it is better if I am only a memory in your life."

"No," he said firmly, his fingers tightening around hers. "The world I fight for, Maria, is a world with you in it."

They stood in silence, the weight of his words settling between them. For a moment, the distant sounds of the soldiers, the crackle of torches, and the night air faded away, leaving just the two of them in the quiet of the garden.

Finally, she nodded, her expression one of acceptance mixed with a cautious hope. "Then go, and come back to me."

He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, allowing himself this single act of tenderness. "I will. I promise you that."

As he turned to leave, he felt her fingers slip from his, but her presence remained with him like a small, persistent warmth amid the coming storm