Theodore paced in his private chamber, clutching a crumpled letter from his informant with knuckles white and trembling. Constantine had won a decisive victory against the Ottomans, sending Murad’s forces reeling back across the borders of Morea. But instead of relief, Theodore felt only frustration, even dread.

“He’s a fool,” Theodore muttered, tossing the letter onto the table cluttered with maps and parchments. “A reckless fool. Had he let the Ottomans pillage the countryside, or paid them off to leave, we would not be in this mess. But no—Constantine sees himself a hero, a savior.”

A servant entered, bowing deeply. “My Lord, your council awaits.”

Theodore inhaled sharply, steadying himself, then nodded. “Good. I would see them.”

Theodore’s most trusted advisors gathered in the dimly lit chamber, the weight of recent events evident on their faces. Alexios, Father Damianos, Father Gregorios, and Lord Demetrios awaited Theodore's words.

Taking his seat, Theodore began, "You've all heard of Constantine's victory over Turahan Bey. While some may view this as a triumph, it weakens our position and provokes the Sultan's wrath.

Lord Demetrios leaned forward. "Indeed, my Lord. His victory not only bolsters his image as a savior but also undermines our efforts against church unification. The anti-unionist cause loses momentum as people rally to his side."

Theodore's eyes narrowed. "We cannot allow his influence to spread unchecked. Father Damianos, I need you to engage with the local nobles. Ensure their loyalty remains with us. Discreetly ascertain if any harbor sympathies for Constantine's cause or, worse, if there are traitors among us."

Father Damianos nodded solemnly. "I will visit each noble under the guise of pastoral care. Their true intentions will be revealed."

Lord Demetrios spoke cautiously, "My Lord, perhaps we can avert Murad's wrath by reminding him of our fealty. We've paid tribute before—after Turahan Bey's invasion some years ago, we secured peace by staying within our castles while he ravaged the countryside."

Father Gregorios added, "A gesture of goodwill might placate Murad, showing that we do not endorse Constantine's provocations."

Theodore considered this, his jaw tight. "You're suggesting we pay off the Ottomans once more?"

Demetrios met his gaze. "It's a distasteful necessity, my Lord. Better a tribute than the annihilation of our lands."

After a tense moment, Theodore exhaled sharply. "Very well. Prepare a missive to Murad. Make it clear that Mystras stands apart from Constantine's ambitions. We will emphasize our desire for continued peace and our willingness to maintain the tributes as before."

The chamber fell into a contemplative silence after Theodore agreed to send a tribute to Murad, hoping to avert the Sultan's wrath. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the room, reflecting the unease that settled among the advisors.

Breaking the silence, Alexios cleared his throat. "Our reports were correct though, Constantine has indeed raised an army, and he now possesses cannons—formidable weapons that seems to significantly aided him in the battle against Turahan Bey."

A murmur rippled through the council. Father Gregorios crossed himself, while Lord Demetrios exchanged a worried glance with Father Damianos.

Theodore took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping over his council. "Let us not underestimate my brother. His victory over Turahan Bey has undoubtedly emboldened him. With his army and these new weapons, he may feel invincible."

Father Damianos leaned forward, his gaze intense. " What if Constantine decides to turn his attention toward Mystras? ”

Lord Demetrios frowned. "Do you believe he would move against us directly?"

“We cannot say for certain," Theodore replied. "But we must prepare for all possibilities. Constantine's ambitions have already led him to embrace foreign machinery and ideas. His disregard for our traditions and authority is evident. It's not unthinkable that he might seek to expand his control."

Father Damianos interjected, "Especially if he believes he is the one true defender of the empire, as some now claim."

A tense silence followed his words. The notion that Constantine could be seen as a savior by the people was a troubling prospect.

Theodore's eyes narrowed. "We must counter this narrative. Highlight the dangers of his actions—the threat to our faith, our culture, and our sovereignty."

Alexios's face remained calm, though his voice was edged with concern. “True, we don't know what Constantine might do next."

Theodore nodded, the weight of responsibility pressing upon him. "Yes. But it's imperative that we act swiftly. Alexios, I want you to oversee the reinforcement of our city walls. Inspect every section and fortify any weaknesses. Ensure that our gates are secure and that additional guards are posted."

"At once, my Lord," Alexios replied.

"Lord Demetrios," Theodore continued, turning his attention to the seasoned nobleman, "begin gathering supplies—food, water, medical provisions. We must be prepared to withstand a siege if it comes to that."

Demetrios inclined his head. "I will see to it immediately."

"Furthermore," Theodore added, "we need to recruit additional troops. Focus on those loyal to Mystras and our cause. Train them rigorously. If Constantine brings war to our doorstep, we must be ready to defend our people."

He then turned back to Alexios. "I want scouts sent out immediately. Set patrols far beyond the city walls. I want every approach to Mystras watched. If Constantine decides to act, we must know long before his forces arrive."

Alexios placed a fist over his heart in a gesture of loyalty. "It will be done, Despot Theodore."

Father Gregorios, who had been silent for much of the meeting, finally spoke. "My Lord, with all these preparations, the people may grow anxious. Rumors spread quickly, and fear even faster."

Theodore met his gaze steadily. "You're right, Father Gregorios. We must manage not only our defenses but also the morale of our citizens."

He looked to Father Damianos. "I need you to reassure the populace. Use your sermons to instill confidence, emphasize our commitment to their safety, and remind them of the strength and righteousness of our cause."

Father Damianos bowed his head. "I will speak to them, my Lord. Their faith will not waver."

"Good," Theodore said, his tone firm. "We cannot allow Constantine's actions to sow discord within our own walls."

As his advisors discussed logistics, Theodore's thoughts drifted back to the harrowing days of 1423 when Turahan Bey last invaded the Morea. Confined within the cold stone walls of the castle in Mystras, he had been a young despot, barely over twenty, bearing the weight of leadership thrust upon him after his uncle's death. His tutor and regent, Nicholas Eudaimonoioannes, had been his steadfast guide during those tumultuous times.

He vividly recalled standing atop the castle walls beside Nicholas, the distant screams of his people echoing through the night as fires consumed the countryside. The acrid scent of smoke filled the air, and the glow of burning villages painted the horizon a haunting red.

"We must hold firm, Theodore," Nicholas had advised, his voice steady despite the despair surrounding them. "Our duty is to preserve what we can so that we may rebuild when this storm passes."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Theodore had clenched his fists, his youthful indignation boiling over. "But our people are dying! Should we not ride out and face them?"

Nicholas placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Courage is not only found on the battlefield. Sometimes, it is in the endurance of watching and waiting, ensuring that the legacy of the Palaiologos lives on. Reckless action now could lead to complete annihilation."

Those words had seared into Theodore's memory, teaching him the painful lesson of restraint. The strategy of staying within the castle walls had saved them from immediate destruction, but the cost had been severe—the ravaging of the countryside, the suffering of their people, and the erosion of trust in their leadership.

Now, with Constantine's rash victory over Turahan Bey, those haunting memories resurfaced with a vengeance. His brother's actions threatened to provoke the full might of Sultan Murad II, jeopardizing not only themselves but everything they held dear. The safety of his daughter Helena, born five years after that devastating invasion, weighed heavily on his mind. He could not bear the thought of her witnessing the horrors he had seen.

But it wasn't just the military provocation that unsettled Theodore. Constantine's embrace of foreign innovations—the printing presses churning out Latin and Greek Bibles, his fraternization with Western scholars, and his eagerness to unify the Eastern Orthodox Church with the Roman Catholic Church, encouraged by Emperor John's ambitions—posed an even greater threat to their traditions and faith.

Theodore feared that the very essence of Byzantine culture in Mystras was at risk. The sanctity of their Orthodox faith hung in the balance as Constantine disseminated foreign ideas and texts, undermining the authority of the traditional clergy and sowing seeds of confusion among the people.

He recalled the uneasy reception of his own marriage to Cleofa Malatesta, a Latin noblewoman—a political alliance that had been met with suspicion and tension. It had taken years for Cleofa to be accepted, and only after she had converted to the Eastern rite. Theodore knew firsthand the cultural and religious divides that could tear communities apart.

The haunting memories steeled Theodore's resolve. He would not let history repeat itself due to Constantine's recklessness. Leadership demanded not only courage but prudence. He had learned when to fight and when to preserve. Now was the time for careful strategy, not bold provocations that could lead to their undoing.

He vowed to protect the Morea, to safeguard the Orthodox faith, and to ensure that his people would not suffer the same horrors again. Even if it meant opposing his own brothers, he would stand firm against the tides of change that threatened to sweep away all they held

After the council adjourned, Theodore lingered in the dimly lit chamber, his gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight that cast elongated shadows upon the cold stone walls. Father Damianos remained behind, his expression thoughtful as he observed the despot's silent turmoil.

Theodore exhaled slowly, the tension easing slightly in the priest’s steady presence. "Tell me, Damianos," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Am I wrong to stand against my brothers? To defy them in this way? Why do they abandon the faith we were all raised to uphold?"

Father Damianos stepped closer, his eyes reflecting empathy and unwavering conviction. "My lord, your brothers have strayed from the path of our forefathers. Constantine, with his embrace of foreign inventions and doctrines, threatens the very foundation of our beliefs. Emperor John pursues union with the Latins, disregarding the sanctity of our traditions. They are blinded by ambition and the allure of false unity."

Theodore's shoulders sagged under the weight of his burdens. "It pains me deeply, Damianos. To oppose my own blood feels like tearing at the fabric of my soul. Yet, I cannot stand idle while they endanger our faith and people."

The priest placed a reassuring hand on Theodore's arm. "Your struggle is a testament to your righteousness, my lord. The path you walk is fraught with hardship, but it is the path of truth. You act not out of malice, but out of a profound duty to protect the Orthodox faith and our way of life."

"Sometimes I wonder if I have the strength to continue," Theodore confessed, his gaze distant. "The people whisper of Constantine's victories and his so-called progress. They do not see the peril that lies ahead."

Father Damianos's eyes gleamed with fervent determination. "Then it falls upon us to open their eyes. To remind them of the sanctity of our traditions and the dangers of straying from them. You are not alone in this fight. The faithful stand beside you."

Theodore looked into the priest's eyes, finding a flicker of hope. "I would protect our religion, even if it means breaking with my own blood," he declared, his voice firming with renewed resolve. "But how do we confront the tide of change they usher in? The printing presses, the foreign alliances, the push for unification—they threaten to erode everything we hold sacred."

Father Damianos nodded solemnly. "We counter it with unwavering faith and steadfast action. We strengthen our communities, reinforce our teachings, and guard our traditions with vigilance. Your leadership inspires others to hold true."

A moment of silence enveloped them, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears and shared purpose. Then Theodore spoke softly, "Will you pray with me, Damianos?"

"Always, my lord," the priest replied warmly.

They knelt side by side on the cold marble floor, heads bowed in reverence. Theodore clasped his hands tightly, his voice barely audible as he began. "Almighty God, grant me the wisdom to discern the righteous path and the courage to walk it without faltering. Shield our people from the perils that beset us, both seen and unseen."

Father Damianos joined in, his voice resonating with solemnity. "Lord, we beseech You to strengthen Your servant Theodore. Let his heart not be troubled by doubt, but fortified by Your divine guidance. May he be a beacon of faith in these turbulent times."

As they rose from their prayers, a serene determination settled over Theodore. The internal storm that had raged within him calmed, leaving clarity in its wake.

"Thank you, Damianos," he said, placing a hand on the priest's shoulder. "Your counsel and faith bolster my own."

"It is my honor to serve, my lord," Father Damianos replied. "Remember, even in the darkest hour, the light of our faith will guide us."

Theodore offered a faint smile. "Indeed. We must remain vigilant. There is much to be done to preserve the soul of the Empire."

"Together, we will stand firm," the priest affirmed. "And with God's grace, we shall overcome the trials ahead."

Theodore straightened, the weight of leadership still upon him but now buttressed by renewed conviction. "Then let us proceed. Our people depend on us, and we shall not fail them."

They exited the chamber, stepping into the corridor where the distant sounds of the castle echoed—a reminder of the world awaiting their guidance. The path before them was fraught with challenges, but fortified by faith and purpose, Theodore felt prepared to face whatever lay ahead.

The kapelion hummed with life as dusk settled over Mystras. Warm light from lamps flickered against the stone walls, casting dancing shadows across faces flushed with wine and animated conversation. The rich scent of roasting lamb mingled with the sharp tang of spiced olives, enveloping the room in a comforting haze.

Kyria Sophia wove through the crowded tables, her apron swaying as she balanced a tray laden with earthenware cups. "Another round for you, Aggelos?" she called out, her eyes crinkling with a smile.

"Aye, and keep them coming!" a burly man replied, laughter rumbling from deep within his chest.

In a quieter corner, Ignatios sat hunched over a worn table, fingers wrapped around a chipped cup. He stared into the dark liquid, as if seeking answers in its depths. The firelight caught the silver strands in his beard, highlighting the creases etched by years of hardship.

Nearby, a man cloaked in traveler's dust spoke in hushed tones to a small gathering. His eyes were sharp beneath a hooded brow, and his voice carried just enough to catch Ignatios's attention.

"They say Despot Constantine faced Turahan Bey near Kalavryta—and won," the traveler murmured, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the tabletop. "His forces unleashed weapons that roared like thunder, belching fire and smoke."

Ignatios's ears perked up at the mention of the battle. He glanced over, curiosity piqued. After a moment's hesitation, he rose from his seat and approached the traveler.

"Pardon my intrusion," Ignatios began, his voice steady but laced with interest. "I couldn't help but overhear your tale of Constantine's victory. Would you care to join me for a drink and share more?"

The traveler looked up, meeting Ignatios's gaze. A faint smile played on his lips. "A generous offer, friend. I'd be glad for the company."

They settled at Ignatios's table as Kyria Sophia appeared beside them, setting down fresh cups and a pitcher of wine. "I see you've made a new acquaintance," she remarked, her eyes flickering between the two men.

Ignatios nodded. "Our friend here brings news from afar."

She arched an eyebrow, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. "Is that so?"

The traveler poured wine into their cups. "Word along the roads is that Despot Constantine's forces wielded weapons unlike any we've seen," he continued. "Cannons that roared like thunder, and soldiers bearing arms no larger than a walking staff, yet capable of piercing armor from afar."

Ignatios's grip tightened on his cup. "Such devices are the stuff of legends."

The traveler leaned in, lowering his voice. "They say foreign engineers craft these weapons. Men from lands beyond our maps."

Kyria Sophia pulled up a stool, her interest clearly piqued. "And what price does he pay for such marvels?"

The traveler hesitated, then whispered, "Bibles."

Ignatios frowned. "Bibles?"

The traveler's expression grew serious. "Not just any Bibles. Latin ones, printed by machines that press words onto paper faster than any scribe. He's selling them to Venetian and other foreign traders. Ships are leaving Glarentza loaded with these printed Bibles, bound for ports all across the Mediterranean. The Venetians can't get enough of them."

Ignatios pushed his cup aside. "Latin Bibles? So it's true, then. He's trading our sacred texts to the West?"

Kyria Sophia's smile faded, her eyes shifting away. "The traders bring gold, Ignatios," she offered softly.

He met her gaze, a storm brewing in his eyes. "At the cost of our faith?"

The traveler shifted uncomfortably. "Not everyone is pleased. In monasteries to the north, they've begun to whisper of heresy. Some speak of rebellion."

Ignatios leaned back, the wooden chair creaking beneath him. "Constantine may have won a battle, but he's sowing seeds of discord among his own people."

Kyria Sophia sighed, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood. "Better discord than oblivion under Ottoman rule."

"Is it woman?" Ignatios challenged. "What good is survival if we lose who we are?"

A tense silence settled over them, the din of the tavern fading into the background. The crackle of the hearth seemed suddenly loud, each pop echoing like a distant gunshot.

Kyria Sophia straightened, forcing a smile as she lifted the pitcher. "Let's not darken this moment with shadows of what may come."

She poured more wine into their cups, the crimson liquid catching the light.

They drank, the wine warm yet leaving a chill in its wake. Around them, laughter and song continued, but a subtle tension threaded through the air—a silent acknowledgment of the precarious path before them.