Dawn breaks over the rugged hills of the Morea, casting a light shade over the marching troops. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and the steady tramp of boots echo along the dusty road. Wildflowers dot the landscape, a stark contrast to the grim determination etched on the soldiers' faces

Constantine rides at the head of the column, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the distant silhouette of the Hexamilion Wall awaits. His dark hair catches the morning breeze. Behind him, Thomas urges his horse forward, pulling alongside his brother. Younger by a few years, Thomas possesses a youthful vigor and keen and observant eyes. "The men seem weary," he notes, glancing back at the column of troops, some of whom are clearly fresh conscripts.

Constantine nods slowly. "They've marched long and fought hard. Many are new to this life—farmers, artisans, boys who should be at home. But they have spirit."

Thomas's brow furrows. "Spirit is good, but training is better. The Ottomans won't be merciful because our soldiers are inexperienced."

A small smile tugs at Constantine's lips. "True. But remember, it was the spirit that held Constantinople during the last siege, and it's the spirit that keeps the empire alive, however fragile."

Thomas falls silent for a moment, absorbing his brother's words. "And what of the Hexamilion? Do you think it can hold if Turahan Bey returns?"

Constantine's expression darkens. "We'll see soon enough."

They ride on in contemplative silence, the weight of unspoken concerns hanging heavily between them.

As the army crests a final hill, the Hexamilion Wall comes into full view. Once a formidable barrier stretching across the Isthmus of Corinth, it now stands in disrepair. Gaping breaches mar its length, and weeds sprout between the crumbling stones. The sea breeze carries the scent of salt and decay.

The soldiers mutter among themselves, their morale visibly shaken by the sight. Constantine dismounts, his boots crunching on loose gravel as he approaches a fallen section of the wall. He runs a gauntleted hand over the weathered stones, his jaw set in a grim line.

Thomas joins him, his eyes scanning the dilapidated fortifications. "It's worse than I imagined," he says softly. "This wall couldn't stop a determined band of thieves, let alone an Ottoman army."

From behind them, Captain Andreas approaches. Tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commands respect. The scar across his left cheek, a souvenir from past battles, adds to his rugged visage. "Despots," he greets them with a respectful nod. "The men are unsettled. Seeing the wall like this..."

Constantine turns to his trusted captain. "I know. We need to restore their confidence, as well as the wall.

Thomas squares his shoulders. "We should begin repairs immediately. We'll need masons, laborers, anyone who can lift a stone. And we should mount cannons at key points. It's our first line of defense."

Captain Andreas nods in agreement. "I can send riders to the nearby villages and call for workers and supplies. But it will take time."

Constantine and Thomas step away from the gathered soldiers near the Hexamilion Wall, into a secluded area by a stand of trees. They’re close enough to hear the distant clanking of armor and murmur of the troops, but here in the shade, the quiet presses down on them like a tangible weight. Thomas’s expression is expectant, though his eyes hold a flicker of unease.

Constantine shifts, crossing his arms, gathering his thoughts. “Do you remember the day we set out from Kalavryta?” he begins carefully

Thomas nods, his brow furrowing. “The morning after my wedding. Spirits were high—why?”

Constantine’s eyes drift to the horizon, recalling that tense journey home. “We were ambushed on the road back to Glarentza. It seemed like mere bandits at first, but Captain Andreas recognized one of them as a former soldier of Theodore’s.”

Thomas’s face freezes, shock flickering before it gives way to anger. “Theodore’s men? You mean… he sent them?”

Constantine hesitates, his voice lowering. “It wasn’t only that ambush. There were signs even before we left for your wedding. A few months prior, a monk had joined to work on the printing presses—until one day, he was caught preparing to set a fire. Theophilus Dragas questioned him—you remember him, a relative of ours who now works for me—and found a komvoskini in his hand, from one of the monasteries in Mystras.”

Thomas's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. "The anti-unionists," he muttered.

"Yes," Constantine confirmed. "The monk came from one of the monasteries under Theodore's influence. We both know how he feels about the union with Rome. He sees our efforts—John's efforts—as betrayal."

Thomas’s expression hardens. “He’s become fanatical. If he hates the union and the Latin Bibles so much, he could have confronted you openly. But sabotage? Sending assassins?”

Constantine sighs, glancing back at the bustling wall. “I hoped it would end with that monk. I thought maybe Theodore would see reason. But then, on that road, those ‘bandits’ attacked us, and Andreas recognized one of them. There’s no mistaking it now. Theodore is working against us, in more ways than one.”

"And you kept this from me?" Thomas demanded, spinning back to face his brother. His eyes blazed with hurt and betrayal.

“Because I didn’t want to turn your wedding into a time for blood and recriminations,” Constantine replies, his voice a low rumble. “It was a hopeful time for us all, for you. And I thought perhaps we could resolve this with Theodore quietly, without dragging it into open conflict. But I was wrong.”

Thomas shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Resolve it quietly? Do you think men like our brother Theodore understand quiet reason? This is the same man who, not so many years ago, talked of becoming a monk, withdrawing from all of this,” he scoffed. “Now he’s driven by hatred for the Latins and his obsession with power. He’s so far gone that if he’s willing to sabotage your efforts, send his men to ambush you—he’ll do anything to see his status preserved.”

Thomas paused, his gaze darkening as he looked away. “What happened to that man, Constantine? To the brother who wanted nothing more than peace? Now he’ll cling to whatever authority he has, and he won’t care who suffers for it.”

Constantine sighed, the weight of Thomas words settling heavily on him. “I know. Whatever he once believed, he’s changed. Or maybe he only hid that ambition until now.”

Constantine continues, his expression both weary and resolute. “Believe me, I understand that now. Theodore’s fanaticism blinds him to reason, and he’s not alone. The monasteries around Mystras echo with his sentiments, fueled by the fear that we’re abandoning Orthodoxy.”

Thomas’s gaze turns calculating, and he asks quietly, “Does John know?”

“No.” Constantine’s tone is blunt. “John’s support of the union only inflames Theodore further. Besides, he’s too far in Constantinople to intervene directly in Morea’s disputes, at least for now. This is something we’ll have to face ourselves.”

Thomas exhales, his hands flexing with restless energy. “So, it comes to this. We’re here, preparing our defenses against the Ottomans, and our own brother threatens to tear us apart from within?”

“Yes,” Constantine replies quietly, the weight of the truth settling over them both. “I wanted to avoid this kind of confrontation, especially now. But with Theodore’s schemes threatening not just my life but our united front… I can’t ignore it any longer. I need you to understand, Thomas. His time has come, but we have to be strategic.”

Thomas meets Constantine’s gaze, his anger tempered by a grim understanding. “I understand, brother. And I’m with you. But Theodore won’t stop—he’s too consumed by his hatred. Eventually, he must answer for this, or his poison will spread through all of Morea.”

Inside the war council tent, the air was thick with the scent of wax and parchment. Constantine, Thomas, Captain Andreas, and George Sphrantzes stood around a table littered with maps and scrolls. The flickering lamplight cast shifting shadows across their faces, mirroring the uncertainties they faced.

"We're beset by threats on all sides," Constantine began, his voice steady. "The Ottomans press us from without, Theodore undermines us from within, and our defenses are weakened. We need a decisive plan."

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He pauses, glancing at the others before turning his gaze to Thomas. “First, we fortify the Hexamilion Wall. Its strategic importance is too great to overlook—it’s our main defense against Ottoman incursions, and I don’t intend to leave this wall so exposed again. More than that, it’s a symbol of unity, a responsibility we share as Palaiologos brothers. Repairing it would show our strength to the Ottomans, our people, and even to John in Constantinople.”

George Sphrantzes nods thoughtfully. “Reinforcing the Hexamilion Wall is essential. Without it, we won’t hold against another Ottoman attack if they come again.”

Constantine turns to Thomas, his expression firm.“Thomas, I need you to stay here and oversee the repairs. This wall is critical. While I march south to deal with Theodore, I’ll leave you a hundred of my conscripts and enough gold to hire local laborers.”

Thomas’s eyes flashed with disbelief. For a moment, he simply stared at his brother, his jaw set in defiance. “You want me to stay here? Guarding a broken wall while you confront Theodore?” He looked past Constantine, watching the distant hills as though he could already see the road south stretching out before him. His grip on his reins tightened, the leather creaking under his fingers

Constantine held his ground, his voice steady. “This isn’t just any wall, Thomas. It’s our first line of defense against the Ottomans. If both of us leave, it will be vulnerable.”

Thomas’s lips pressed into a thin line, his brow creased. “A Palaiologos shouldn’t be left behind to mend stones,” he muttered, the bitterness seeping through despite his efforts to hide it. He cast another glance at the soldiers gathered around the wall, fresh recruits looking to him with expectation, men who would follow him if only Constantine allowed it. “I should be at your side, not buried under rock and rubble.”

Constantine stepped closer, clasping his brother’s shoulder firmly. “Thomas, there’s no one I’d rather have here than you. And there’s no one I trust more to hold this line. Our people need to see a Palaiologos here—a strong one, one they can believe in.”

Thomas’s hand clenched, then relaxed as he forced a nod, trying to swallow the resentment rising in his throat. “Fine,” he murmured. “But don’t expect me to stay here forever, Constantine. I’ll hold this wall because you asked me to. But one day… I’ll be the one leading beside you.”

Constantine’s grip on his shoulder tightened, his gaze softening. “It will be sooner than later brother."

Turning to Captain Andreas, Constantine’s tone grows thoughtful. “But we need more than fortifications. As we already discussed, we’ll need more troops to secure Morea in the long term. We will try recruiting men as we march toward Mystras.

Andreas, ever the pragmatist, nods. “It’s possible, though it will take careful planning to manage supplies and organize training. Many nearby villages have able men, and if they know they’ll be on payroll, they’ll be more motivated to join.”

George raises a cautionary hand. “But remember, a larger force means more strain on our resources. Every soldier is an expense—armor, weapons, food. We’ll need to ration carefully.”

Constantine nods, acknowledging the point. “We’ll have to manage with what we have, but a larger force gives us the flexibility to act decisively in the long turn.

He shifts his gaze southward, his face hardening as he considers their next move. “Which brings us back to Theodore. There is no time to waste; we will march tomorrow.

A tense silence follows, each man contemplating the risks of fighting family. George’s voice is cautious as he speaks. “Attacking Mystras is no small decision, Constantine. This isn’t just a battle; it’s a statement. If John hears of it, he may view it as aggression against your own blood.”

Constantine’s eyes narrow. “It’s not a choice I make lightly, George. But Theodore has left us no options.”

Captain Andreas steps forward, his brow furrowing. “Mystras is heavily fortified. Theodore will defend it fiercely if he realizes our intent. Are you sure our field cannons will be enough?”

Constantine’s voice is unwavering. “Field cannons aren’t ideal for siege, but they’re our best advantage. If we target a single weak point, perhaps the gates, we might break through before Theodore can organize his defenses. And remember, he’s never faced cannons in battle—it may give us the element of surprise.”

Another tense silence falls as each man considers the stakes. Finally, Captain Andreas speaks, his tone resolute. “We’ll follow your command, Despot. Morea has waited long enough for stability. It’s time to secure it.”

"Then it's settled. We depart at first light" Constantine replied.

The camp stirred with purpose in the pale light of dawn. The chill of early morning clung to the air, and a thin mist hung low over the Morean hills. Soldiers moved quietly, stacking crates of provisions, checking weapons, and murmuring as they prepared for the day’s departure. The sun crept over the horizon, casting a cool, gray light across the encampment, shadows stretching across the damp ground.

Thomas moved among the men, overseeing the placement of fortifications. He paused by each watchtower, offering steady words to the young recruits already stationed there, his presence bolstering their resolve as the first light of day broke. Turning, he saw Constantine approaching, carrying a wooden chest. Without a word, Constantine held it out to him.

“Here,” Constantine said, lifting the lid to reveal a cache of gold coins glinting in the faint morning light. “Use this to hire more workers; bring in any needed materials. If the Hexamilion is to stand, it needs to be stronger than ever.”

Thomas took the chest, his fingers brushing the cool metal. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low but firm. “Rest assured, the wall will stand firm under my watch.”

They fell silent, each weighed down by unspoken words. Constantine searched his brother’s face, seeing not only the determined captain but the younger brother who had once followed him through the hills and woods as a child, always trying to match his pace.

After a long pause, Thomas broke the silence. “Be careful, Constantine. Theodore is cunning, and Mystras is well-defended.” His voice was steady, but a flicker of worry broke through, an echo of the boy who had once watched his older brother take risks he could only imagine.

Constantine placed a firm hand on Thomas shoulder, his gaze softening. “Do you remember that summer in Selymbria?” he asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “When we raced up the hills? You swore you’d beat me to the top, even though I had years on you.”

A hint of a smile crossed Thomas’s face, though it didn’t erase the tension in his eyes. “I remember. You always reached the top first. But I told myself one day, I’d catch up to you.”

Constantine’s grip tightened slightly, his voice quiet. “You have, Thomas. And right now, there’s no one I trust more to lead here. You’re not in my shadow—you’re standing right where you’re needed.”

Thomas’s jaw clenched as he struggled for words, but his silence spoke louder. With a nod, he let out a long breath. “Then I’ll make sure this wall holds for both of us. And if you need me…” He trailed off, the weight of their situation filling the pause.

Constantine nodded, his gaze serious. “I know. And I’ll call on you, brother, when the time comes.”

They embraced, each holding the other a moment longer than usual, the brief gesture heavy with the fear and hope they dared not voice. When they pulled apart, Thomas watched as Constantine turned and strode toward his horse, a lone figure riding southward under the fresh light of dawn.

The chill of early morning clung to the air as Constantine mounted his horse, surveying the camp one last time. Men adjusted their armor, tested the straps of their packs, and murmured in low voices as they prepared for the long journey south. Constantine’s gaze lingered on the distant hills, where the road to Mystras lay hidden, snaking through rugged terrain that would bring him face-to-face with his own brother.

George Sphrantzes rode up alongside him, his keen eyes sweeping the landscape as he took stock of the gathered troops. “The men seem eager, Despot,” he remarked, his tone cautious. “But there’s tension among them. News of Theodore’s treachery has a way of spreading.”

Constantine nodded, glancing over the faces of his soldiers. “Let it spread. The men need to know what we’re up against.” He paused, his voice steely. “They should understand that this is no ordinary march.”

As the column set out, the road soon wound past villages that had long been haunted by rumors of an Ottoman raid. At each village, Constantine and his men stopped to recruit willing villagers, farmers who took up rough spears, their faces a mixture of hope and resolve. As word of Constantine’s march and the recent victory over Turahan Bey spread through the countryside, villagers emerged from their homes to watch the soldiers pass, their expressions a blend of awe and relief.

“We heard of your victory, Despot,” an elderly man called out as the soldiers moved past. “It’s good to know we’re safe from the Ottomans again. My son… he was just a boy the last time they raided. We feared it would happen again.”

Others murmured in agreement, their eyes glancing toward the hills, as if still haunted by the memory of Ottoman hordes that had swept through only years before. The relief in their faces was unmistakable, a quiet gratitude that the specter of Ottoman invasion had been held at bay, at least for now.

Captain Andreas rode up, his face a mask of calm authority. “Despot, we’ve added another fifty men from the villages. Not seasoned fighters, but willing.”

“Every man counts,” Constantine replied, watching as a teenager barely old enough to hold a spear joined the column's rear. “See that they’re armed, whatever we have to spare. When the time comes, their spirit may be all that stands between them and the Ottomans.”

After days of marching, they finally reached the outskirts of Lakonia. A scout approached from the south, his horse foaming with sweat. He quickly dismounted and knelt, then spoke in a hurried tone. “Despot, we’ve spotted movement on the road to Mystras—a small party, likely Theodore’s scouts.”

Constantine’s gaze narrowed. “He’s already watching us,” he murmured to George, his tone unreadable. “Good. Let him see us coming.”

They pressed onward, the terrain growing more difficult as they neared Mystras. The hills loomed higher, casting dark shadows across the path as the sun climbed. Tension simmered among the men, the silence broken only by the steady beat of hooves and the rustle of armor. Each step brought them closer to Theodore’s stronghold, where Constantine knew a confrontation awaited.

Near dusk, another scout arrived, his voice urgent. “Despot, our spies report that Theodore’s forces are unaware of the size of our advance. But they say Theodore himself remains fortified within the city walls, gathering his loyalists.”

Constantine’s face hardened. “So, he plans to wait us out.” He looked to Captain Andreas and George, a grim smile tugging at his lips. “He’ll learn soon enough that waiting won’t save him.”

As the last light of day faded, Constantine rode at the head of his troops, the shadow of Mystras stretching in the hills across the valley. The men behind him shifted, their movements tense, hands resting on sword hilts and shields. Silence settled over the column as they approached the final stretch, the weight of what lay ahead bearing down on them.

Constantine lifted his hand, signaling for a halt. In the silence, he felt the steady rise of his own pulse. He looked southward, toward the darkened walls of Mystras, his thoughts heavy with the stakes of what was to come. In that moment, the sky seemed to darken, clouds gathering as though the heavens themselves were watching.

Without turning, he spoke, his voice a low murmur that carried through the men beside him. “Tonight, we camp here. Tomorrow, we face my brother.”

As the men began to set up camp, Constantine remained on his horse, watching the distant walls of Mystras. The anticipation of battle hummed in the air, thick with the promise of blood and betrayal. In the gathering darkness, his gaze sharpened, unyielding.

And as night fell, the faint glimmer of torchlight appeared on the walls of Mystras, a silent acknowledgment of the arrival of an army—and the beginning of a reckoning.