The early light filtered through the brick buildings as Michael strolled down Bedford Avenue, the morning chill brushing against his face. Williamsburg was waking up slowly, the cafes and boutiques just starting to open, and a faint smell of freshly baked bread drifted from a bakery across the street.
Michael took a detour to his favorite coffee shop, a cozy spot nestled between an art gallery and a vintage record store. The barista, a young guy with a knitted cap and a friendly smile, greeted him. "Morning, Michael! Your usual?" he asked, already grabbing a cup.
Michael nodded, settling into the familiar, comforting rhythm. He leaned against the counter, inhaling the dark, rich aroma as his coffee brewed. Outside, the quiet hum of early-morning Brooklyn filled the air, punctuated by the occasional rumble of the subway below and the distant sounds of the East River.
With his coffee in hand, Michael stepped back onto the street, savoring the warmth as he walked the few blocks to his bookstore. Williamsburg’s energy was magnetic, a mix of young creatives, artists, and longtime locals who made the neighborhood feel alive with possibility. It was the perfect place for a bookstore—a small haven hidden in the midst of the neighborhood’s eclectic streets.
He approached his shop, the storefront modest but welcoming, with the sign above that read Dust & Pages. A handwritten sign on the door advertised a local author event for that evening, and a few new arrivals were displayed in the window. He paused for a moment, looking at the familiar sight, feeling a rare sense of peace settle over him.
He reached for his keys, the chill of the metal a reminder of routines he’d come to cherish. As he inserted the key into the lock, a sudden dizziness washed over him. The world around him wavered, buildings seeming to ripple as if reflected in disturbed water.
“Constantine,” a voice called out, cutting through the ambient noise of the city.
The name resonated deep within him, each syllable vibrating like a struck tuning fork. Michael blinked, his vision blurring at the edges. The distant honk of car horns and the murmur of early commuters dulled, replaced by an eerie silence.
“Constantine!” the voice repeated, more urgent now.
The quiet Brooklyn morning faded, slipping away like a fog. His heartbeat quickened as he felt the warmth of his coffee disappear. In its place came the scratchy feel of a coarse blanket and the muted, earthy scents of a military tent. He blinked, his body tensed, and realized he was lying on a bedroll in dim light, the familiar warmth of Williamsburg replaced by the cold dawn of another world.
“Despot Constantine,” came the voice again, sharper now.
Michael—or Constantine, as he now was—snapped awake, the fog of sleep clearing to reveal George Sphrantzes, his trusted advisor, standing at the tent's entrance.
The chill of dawn clung to the camp as Constantine stirred to the sound of George’s voice outside his tent. The sharp scent of burning wood from the night’s dying fires mingled with the damp earth, grounding him in the present. “Despot, a message from Theodore,” George announced, stepping inside. He handed Constantine a folded letter, its seal still intact.
Unfurling the parchment, Constantine’s eyes skimmed Theodore’s curt words. Withdraw your forces, Constantine. As Despot of Morea, I demand your obedience.
Anger simmered within him, but he let it settle before responding. Theodore’s arrogance was expected. It didn’t matter. They would press forward.
“George,” he called out after a pause, his voice steady. “Prepare a reply. Tell Theodore that if he surrenders, I will spare him. But make it clear—I know of the assassins he sent. His treachery will be answered, one way or another.”
George nodded, his expression grim but resolute, and disappeared from the tent.
The sky had barely lightened when the first signs of movement began across the camp. Soldiers stirred, donning their armor and preparing their weapons as Constantine emerged, his figure broad and imposing against the gray morning. Alongside him walked Captain Andreas, his loyal and battle-hardened officer, eyes scanning the landscape with the unspoken confidence of a seasoned warrior.
“We’ll begin by securing the perimeter,” Constantine instructed Andreas as they surveyed the ground between their position and the town. “It’s far from ideal with our numbers, but it’s essential.” His eyes drifted to the path leading to the walls, the steep inclines dotted with crags and boulders—terrain that would make moving artillery a challenge.
“We’ll manage, Despot,” Andreas replied, his voice steady. “The cannons will take time to position, but once they’re in place, they’ll breach those walls. However,” he added, “the springs within Mystras mean cutting their water supply won’t be an option.”
Constantine’s gaze lingered on the distant towers. “If Theodore won’t surrender, we’ll weaken him from within. Have men shout promises of safe passage for those who lay down arms. And make it clear that no harm will come to civilians—they must know we’re here for Theodore, not them. Use this to wear down their loyalty.”
As the sun climbed higher, cries began to ring out from various points along the encampment. Constantine’s soldiers, strategically placed, shouted toward the walls of Mystras, offering leniency to those who deserted. A promise of safety and provisions if they abandoned Theodore.
Days passed in tense silence, each hour building the pressure around Mystras. No word came from Theodore, and Constantine knew it was only a matter of time before his patience wore thin.
On the morning of the attack, the air held an unnatural stillness. Constantine stood before the rows of men, his voice cutting through the quiet.
“Today, we break through the gate of Mystras. For those of you at the front,” he continued, his gaze steady, “You are my shield. Strike hard and strike true, but spare any who yield. And to the first man who enters the city,” he added, raising his voice, “a gold ducat awaits—a reward for courage in the face of battle.”
A murmur of excitement rippled through the ranks, hardening their resolve. Constantine held their eyes a moment longer, then raised his sword high. “To the gate!” he commanded, the promise of gold and glory fueling their cries as they surged forward into the fray.
The day of the assault began under a muted gray sky, heavy clouds rolling in as if bearing witness to the violence about to unfold. Constantine’s ten Drakos-class cannons—imposing machines of destruction—had been painstakingly hauled forward at first light. Each was strategically positioned to direct their fire upon the central gate of Mystras' lower city, a timber portal reinforced with iron. The defenders above, barely visible, scurried to brace themselves against the inevitable barrage.
Constantine, cloaked in his armor, stood atop a small rise just behind the artillery line, his eyes trained on the gate in the distance. He could feel the anticipation, the tense, electrified energy running through his men as they watched him for the signal. His voice rang out over the low murmur of the soldiers.
"Fire!"
With that, the first cannon thundered to life, sending a cloud of smoke and dust billowing into the morning air as its shot hurtled toward the gate. The impact resonated through the hills, a deep, percussive thud as wood splintered and iron clanged. The shot struck high, impacting the wall just above the gate, causing chips of stone to rain down. But the door itself held firm.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
One after another, each cannon fired in sequence, their roars echoing like the growls of ten ancient beasts. As each cannon discharged, a thick haze of smoke began to settle over the artillery line, swirling around the soldiers who scrambled to reload the massive weapons.
The reloading was arduous and painstaking; it took almost five minutes to pack powder, load the shot, and set the fuse for each cannon. Every couple of volleys, the crews paused to let the cannons cool, their barrels dangerously hot from the relentless firing. These breaks were brief but essential—without them, the heat could warp the barrels or cause misfires. Yet the crews worked methodically, undeterred, eyes fixed on their task, moving with the practiced rhythm of men who knew the stakes and would see the job done.
After the first few volleys, Constantine’s gaze sharpened as he observed the changes in the gate. Some of the iron braces were bent inward, and cracks spiderweb across the gate walls. He turned to Andreas, who stood by his side, eyes equally intense.
“Focus the next rounds on the central timber of the gate,” Constantine ordered. “Bring that down first. Once it starts to give way, the rest will follow.”
The cannon crews adjusted their angles, lowering the barrels ever so slightly. The next volley struck more accurately, slamming directly into the wooden panels, splinters flying into the air like jagged arrows. Soldiers on the walls tried to shield their eyes, crouching low as the brutal assault continued. Each impact sent shudders through the gate, weakening it piece by piece.
But it was slow work. Each shot seemed to take a small, defiant bite out of the gate, and each time, the gate stubbornly held. Hours passed in this relentless cycle of thunder and smoke, the smell of burnt powder filling the air, mingling with the scent of damp earth and sweat. The ground beneath the cannons was littered with fragments of charred wood and broken stone, testament to the hours of sustained fire. Constantine could see his men growing weary, their arms heavy from loading the weighty cannonballs, their faces smeared with grime and sweat. Yet they pressed on.
Near midday, a shot struck directly at the weakest point in the door, blasting through both wood and iron. A tremor rippled through the gate as part of the stone wall above it began to collapse. Dust and debris tumbled down from the gatehouse, and several defenders atop the wall scrambled backward, clutching at each other for support as the parapet gave way in places.
“Another round—concentrate fire on that breach!” Constantine shouted, his voice carrying through the din of battle.
The cannons boomed again, their shots tearing into the fractured wood, widening the breach with each successive impact. Finally, after hours of siege, the door groaned under its own weight, splintered timber cracking and sagging inward. The remaining portion of the wall above it crumbled, sending a cascade of stone down onto the gate, breaking it open at last.
A cheer rose from Constantine’s soldiers, who had gathered along the artillery line, watching the relentless punishment finally bear fruit. The gate lay battered and broken, barely hanging from its iron hinges, the breach wide enough to push through.
Without missing a beat, Constantine raised his sword, his voice fierce and commanding. “To the gate! Forward!” His officers relayed the command down the line, and with a unified shout, the soldiers surged toward the fractured gate, their footsteps pounding over the ground as they prepared to storm the city.
The cannons fell silent, their barrels still smoldering as Constantine’s men, swords raised, shields locked, rushed toward the breach.
Under cover of the Pyrvelos, the front line charged, swords and shields raised, their war cries clashing with the panicked shouts of the defenders on the walls. Smoke and flame erupted from the Pyrvelos units as they fired, sending bursts of shrapnel and burning powder over the defenders’ heads, scattering them in confusion. The thick, acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air, blending with the metallic tang of blood and the earthy smell of disturbed dirt.
At the front of the charge, a young swordsman named Tryphon darted forward, his heart pounding. This was his first assault, but his training had taught him the discipline to push fear to the edges of his mind. He kept his gaze fixed on the breached gate ahead, barely noticing as arrows thudded into the ground and embedded themselves in shields beside him.
To his right, Polydoros, a veteran soldier who had been with Constantine for years, raised his own battered shield against the hail of arrows and missiles from above. Though his movements were seasoned and calm, his eyes blazed with the thrill of battle. The roars of the Pyrvelos behind them echoed in his ears as he moved forward, feeling the reverberations through the ground itself.
The gate loomed closer, its shattered remains hanging at odd angles. Tryphon braced his shield, his muscles straining as an arrow slammed into it with a dull thud, splintering the wood. He gritted his teeth and surged forward, forcing himself into the gap in the gate.
Chaos awaited on the other side. A line of enemy soldiers formed a desperate barrier, brandishing their spears and swords to repel the attackers. Tryphon barely had time to register the details before a defender lunged at him, shield raised, his spear aimed directly at Tryphon’s chest. Tryphon twisted to the side, feeling the whoosh of air as the spear grazed past him, then swung his sword down in a swift arc. His blade struck the enemy’s shield, sending him reeling back. In a quick follow-up, Tryphon thrust forward, piercing the man’s side and dropping him to the ground.
Beside him, Polydoros was locked in combat with two defenders, his sword flashing as he parried and struck in practiced powerful movements. With a vicious swing, he cleaved through one defender’s arm, the man’s scream lost in the din around them. Polydoros kicked the man aside, using the moment to lock eyes with Tryphon.
“Hold fast, Tryphon! Press through!” Polydoros shouted, raising his shield as another volley of arrows rained down. He moved forward in measured strides, carving a path through the defenders with every swing of his blade.
Behind them, Constantines soldiers surged forward, pouring through the gate while others put up hastily placed ladders. The ladders were more than just a means of entry—they were diversions, drawing defenders’ attention and spreading them thin across the walls, allowing the main force to push deeper through the gate, into the city. Constantine’s plan was unfolding as intended, and the relentless hammering of the Pyrvelos from outside kept the defenders’ heads low.
But the defenders of Mystras fought with fierce determination, desperate to hold their city. The passage through the gate turned into a brutal choke point, and movement became difficult as soldiers on both sides clashed in a close-quarters melee. Swords scraped against armor, and the cries of the wounded and dying mingled with the roar of combat. Tryphon pushed forward with everything he had, his vision blurring with sweat, his limbs growing heavy. All around him, men fell, Attackers and defenders alike, trampled beneath the press of bodies.
“Push, brothers! For Constantine!” Polydoros bellowed, rallying the men around him. They surged forward, his shout lending them a burst of strength. With a final, powerful shove, they broke through the enemy’s line, spilling out from the gate into the broader space of the lower city’s streets.
But the cost had been heavy. As Constantine’s men spread out, securing the streets and clearing the remaining pockets of resistance, they found themselves stepping over the bodies of their fallen comrades. Over two hundred of Constantine’s soldiers lay dead or wounded in the narrow confines of the gateway.
Tryphon bent over, catching his breath, his sword dripping with blood. He glanced back at the breached gate, now littered with bodies and stained with the remnants of the fierce struggle.
Polydoros clapped a hand on his shoulder, his face grim yet resolute. “Today, you earned your place,” he said quietly. Tryphon nodded, feeling both pride and the weight of loss as he looked around. They had taken the lower part of the city, but the towering walls of the citadel above loomed as a harsh reminder: the fight for Mystras was far from over.
Constantine’s forces gathered at the edge of the upper town, the steep incline of the hilly terrain making further progress challenging. They now controlled the lower city, but the citadel loomed above—heavily fortified and nearly impregnable. The Iron Gate of the upper city was positioned at an awkward side angle, making it impossible to place the cannons effectively. Furthermore, their remaining gunpowder supplies were critically low, rendering the cannons all but useless for breaching the next line of defenses.
That evening, Constantine sent a second message to Theodore, demanding his surrender once more. When the reply came, it was as defiant as ever. For days, the siege stalled, each side locked in a silent standoff.
As days passed and the siege dragged on, Constantine refused to let time slip by without gaining every possible advantage. With the lower city under his control, he seized the opportunity to visit Brontochion Monastery, a place renowned for its intellectual heritage and occasional teachings by Plethon. Many of the monks there were sympathetic to Plethon’s ideas and Constantine recognized their potential as valuable allies. Listening as they cautiously discussed the prospect of bridging the divide, he sensed an opening to strengthen his position. To deepen their trust, he presented them with two printed Greek bibles—a gesture that was met with respectful gratitude.
From there, Constantine climbed to Pantanassa Monastery, a staunchly anti-union establishment. Here, he donated another Greek bible and addressed the monks with intensity, denouncing Theodore as a traitor who had betrayed the empire and his own blood. He branded Theodore an apostate and a threat to Byzantium, hoping that his words would echo beyond the monastery walls and inspire the townsfolk to rally to his cause.
A couple of days later, Constantine gathered his officers—George and Andreas among them—under the faint light of dawn. They discussed the reality of their situation: their forces were stretched thin, the supplies dwindling. It was time to decide—either lift the siege or commit to starving out the city.