The command tent was heavy with the smell of damp canvas and the lingering scent of sweat and leather. Constantine stood over the war table, the map of Mystras spread before him. Red marks denoted the parts of the city his forces had conquered—the lower town—but the upper city loomed high on the map as it did in reality: fortified, imposing, and unyielding. Around him stood George Sphrantzes and Captain Andreas, both grim-faced and silent, waiting for Constantine to speak.

“The lower city is ours,” Constantine began, his voice steady but low. “But the upper city is a fortress. The Iron Gate at that angle—” He gestured sharply at the map, tracing the steep incline and gate’s placement. “—makes it impossible to position the cannons effectively. And what gunpowder we have left… it’s barely enough for a couple of volleys.”

Andreas nodded, arms crossed. “Even if we had the powder, Despot, an assault on that terrain would bleed us dry. The men are exhausted, and our casualties from the lower city were higher than expected. Theodore’s defenders are dug in. If we attack, it’ll be a massacre.”

George stepped closer to the table, his tone calm but insistent. “Yet if we abandon the siege entirely, Theodore will reassert control over the entire city. He’ll claim it as a victory, rally his supporters, and paint us as weak. The people of Mystras may not follow him, but they’ll be afraid of him.”

Constantine’s gaze sharpened, and he turned to George. “The people know he is no savior. We’ve shown them that already. They saw us treat their wounded, share our food, and gift their monasteries the first printed Greek bibles. They’ve seen mercy from us—justice. Theodore’s treachery is no secret.”

“And that goodwill can be our advantage,” George replied, nodding. We cannot win the upper city by force, at least not with a prolonged siege to starve them out. But if we withdraw, we can control the narrative. Let the people know we will return more robust, with Theodore’s betrayal still fresh in their minds.”

Andreas leaned on the edge of the table, his expression firm. “If we lift the siege now, Despot, it’s not a retreat—it’s a regrouping. We return to Glarentza, gather more resources, fortify the Hexamilion Wall, and prepare for what’s coming from the Ottomans. Theodore may keep Mystras for now, but his supplies are low, and he won’t find it easy to recover.”

“But he will recover,” Constantine said, his voice sharp with frustration. He turned away from the table, pacing the small space. “Every step back we take is a step he will seize. Every moment we give him, he will find new ways to undermine me—us.”

George’s voice was steady, soothing. “And every moment we are here, Theodore bleeds us of men and resources we cannot afford to lose. The Ottomans won’t wait for us to finish this feud, Constantine. If we weaken ourselves here, they will finish what Theodore cannot.”

Constantine stopped pacing, staring at the map, his hands braced against the table's edge. The weight of the decision bore down on him, pressing hard against his pride and sense of justice. He thought of the men who had already fallen.

He exhaled slowly and nodded. “We’ll lift the siege.”

George and Andreas exchanged glances, a flicker of relief crossing their faces.

“We withdraw to Glarentza,” Constantine continued, his voice steadier now, decisive. “Regroup, rebuild, and prepare. The Hexamilion Wall must be our top priority, and our reserves must be restocked. Inform the men—make it clear that this is not a retreat. It is strategy. Theodore may have his citadel but will not hold it for long.”

Andreas saluted and left the tent to relay the orders. George lingered a moment, placing a hand on Constantine’s shoulder. “You’ve made the right choice, Despot. Sometimes, the wisest victory is the one delayed.”

Constantine gave a curt nod but said nothing, his eyes fixed on the map. His gaze lingered on the upper city, its Iron Gate mocking him with its defiance.

“Enjoy your borrowed time, Theodore,” he murmured under his breath. “It won’t last long.”

The morning was quiet as Constantine’s army began its departure from Mystras. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and the creak of wagon wheels echoed across the valley, the soldiers moving with weary determination. The banners of the Roman eagle fluttered in the crisp air, a symbol of resilience. Constantine rode at the head of the column, flanked by George and Andreas, his thoughts heavy but focused on the road ahead.

The lower city’s conquest had brought temporary control of Mystras, but the decision to withdraw meant abandoning it to Theodore’s inevitable return. Constantine was determined to make the most of the march back to Glarentza, strengthening his hold over the Morea along the way.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows over the rugged hills as Constantine’s forces approached the small town of Veligosti. What had once been a modest but fortified town in the Frankish era was now little more than a crumbling settlement clinging to its past. At the far end of the small town, a ruined fort stood on a small hill, its walls broken and overgrown with vegetation. Smoke from scattered campfires within suggested a garrison, though a small one.

Constantine halted his column on a ridge overlooking the town. He turned to Captain Andreas and George Sphrantzes; both mounted at his side.

“The fort is barely standing,” Constantine remarked, his tone measured. “But it’s enough for Theodore to use as a foothold. We can’t leave it in his hands.”

Andreas leaned forward in his saddle, scanning the defenses. “The walls of the fort are too damaged to hold out against a proper assault. If we move quickly, we can overwhelm them before they regroup.”

Constantine nodded. “Take three hundred men. Advance through the town with infantry while the Pyrvelos cover you from a distance. Have them lay down suppressive fire to pin the defenders. Keep it clean and fast—we can’t afford unnecessary losses.”

Andreas saluted, already barking orders to the nearby officers. As the troops formed up, Constantine turned to George. “Once the fort is secure, I want every trace of Theodore’s forces here erased. This place cannot be allowed to serve him again.”

George inclined his head. “It will be done, Despot.”

Andreas led the three hundred infantry through the narrow streets of Veligosti, raising their shields as they advanced in disciplined formation. Behind them, the Pyrvelos gunmen prepared their weapons, the glint of their barrels catching the fading sunlight.

By the time Andreas’s force reached the base of the hill, the defenders had gathered in the ruined fort, shouting orders and attempting to block the gaps in the crumbling walls. The Pyrvelos started firing, targeting the hilltop. Shots struck the broken walls, sending fragments of stone and wood flying. The defenders huddled behind what little cover they could find, their morale visibly eroding.

Andreas split his troops into two groups, sending one to scale the hill on the left flank while the main force advanced directly up the central path. The climb was steep but short, the fort’s dilapidated state offering little in the way of true defense. Within moments, they were inside the broken walls.

The fighting was swift and brutal. The few defenders, realizing escape was impossible, fought with the desperation of cornered men, but their disorganization sealed their fate. Andreas himself cut down the garrison’s leader, a burly man wielding a sword, as his troops swept through the fort. Shouts of surrender soon replaced the clang of steel.

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An hour later, Constantine rode into the town, the sounds of battle replaced by the quiet murmurs of soldiers gathering the spoils and tending to the wounded. The captured defenders, fewer than two dozen, were brought before him in the town square. They knelt in a line, their faces streaked with dirt and fear.

Constantine dismounted, his armor gleaming even in the fading light. He strolled along the line of prisoners, his gaze cold and unreadable. “You fought for Theodore,” he said, his voice low but firm. “And yet he left you here to die, hiding behind his walls while you bled for his cause.”

He turned to Andreas. “Strip them of their weapons. Spare their lives, but send them away with a message: Theodore’s rebellion is doomed, and those who fight for him will find no glory.”

Andreas saluted and began issuing orders. Constantine then addressed his officers. “Burn the fort. What little remains of its defenses must not fall into Theodore’s hands again.”

By nightfall, the ruined fort was ablaze, its flames casting an eerie glow over the surrounding hills. Constantine’s troops had secured what supplies they could and dismantled what remained of the defenders’ makeshift defenses. The people of Veligosti, emerging cautiously from their homes, were assured of Constantine’s protection and told to report any movement of Theodore’s forces.

As the army marched out of the town the next morning, Constantine rode at the head of the column, his mind already turning to the challenges ahead. The destruction of Veligosti was a small victory, but every step forward weakened Theodore’s grip on the Morea.

“Onward to Karytaina,” he said to George, his tone resolute. “Theodore must be stripped of every foothold North of Mystras.

The steep hills of Karytaina came into view under the soft light of evening; the small castle perched defiantly atop a rocky peak overlooking the settlement below. Unlike the bloodshed at Veligosti, the approach to Karytaina was met with little resistance. As Constantine’s banners crested the ridge, the garrison commander emerged with his few soldiers, the gates swinging open in submission. Kneeling before Constantine, the commander pledged his loyalty.

Inside the castle, Constantine wasted no time. The fortress was in a state of neglect—its walls cracked, the gates weathered, and the towers crumbling. He immediately ordered repairs, and his men hauled stones and timber from the surrounding area. Under Captain Andreas’s direction, the soldiers worked tirelessly for a few days, patching walls and reinforcing gates with iron bindings. While not perfect, the hurried repairs transformed the castle into a more defensible position, sufficient to hold against any immediate threats.

“We’ll leave fifty men here,” Constantine instructed Andreas, his tone firm. “Make sure they are well-provisioned and have clear orders to control the region. Theodore must not be allowed to retake this place.”

Andreas nodded, his expression resolute. “They’ll hold it, Despot. Karytaina will be a thorn in Theodore’s side.”

The townsfolk, initially wary, began to warm to Constantine as they watched his soldiers repair the castle and secure the region. Word of his victory over the Ottomans had already reached the village, and whispers of his growing strength filled the air. When Constantine met with the village elders, they greeted him with cautious respect, pledged their loyalty, and provided provisions for the army’s continued march.

During their stay in Karytaina, Constantine sought to solidify alliances in the region. Leaving Andreas to oversee the defenses, he departed with a small escort to visit two renowned monasteries, both spiritual and political centers of influence north of the town.

The first stop was the Monastery of Panagia Kalamiou, nestled in the verdant hills near the Lousios River. Its weathered stone walls exuded an air of quiet defiance, reflective of its reputation as a bastion of anti-union sentiment. As Constantine and his retinue approached, the sound of the river blended with the faint chanting of monks within.

The Abbot greeted Constantine with a wary formality, his skepticism evident in his carefully measured words. Constantine presented a Greek-printed bible in the monastery’s shaded halls, holding it up as a symbol of faith and modernity.

“The emperor’s efforts for church unification are not a betrayal of our traditions,” Constantine began, his voice steady and measured. “They are a necessary step for our survival. Divided, we are weak—easy prey for the Ottoman threat that looms ever larger. United, we can stand strong.”

The monks listened in silence, their expressions guarded but contemplative. After the formal meeting, Constantine requested a private audience with the Abbot, where the discussion took a more pragmatic turn.

“I understand your concerns,” Constantine said, leaning forward slightly. “But consider this: with my support, your monastery will thrive, not just spiritually but materially. I will personally ensure an annual donation of 100 gold ducats to sustain your work. In return, I ask for your influence and cooperation in guiding the faithful to stand with us—for the empire and the Church.”

The Abbot hesitated, his fingers steepled as he considered the offer. After a long moment, he nodded. “If your promise holds, Despot, then so will my word.”

Constantine extended his hand, clasping the Abbot firmly. “It will.”

The next day, Constantine traveled deeper into the hills, following the rugged path to the cliffside Monastery of Saint John the Baptist. Built into the rock face of the Lousios Gorge, its beauty was breathtaking, a testament to the devotion of its founders. Here, the monks were known for their pro-union stance, and Constantine found a more receptive audience.

The Abbot greeted him warmly and led him into the monastery’s main hall. Once again, Constantine presented a printed Bible, speaking with impassioned conviction: “Unity is not just a hope—it is a shield. The Ottomans will not stop, and if we remain divided, we will be crushed. Stand with the emperor. Stand with me. Together, we can preserve our faith and our people.”

The monks listened attentively, their nods and quiet murmurs signaling agreement. After the formal address, Constantine lingered, exchanging blessings with the Abbot and engaging the monks in conversations about their role in fighting for the empire's survival. Their prayers echoed through the stone halls as they pledged their continued support.

When Constantine returned to Karytaina a few days later, he found the initial repairs nearly complete. Andreas reported that the garrison was ready, provisions were stocked, and the town was firmly under control.

Constantine surveyed the fortified position, nodding in approval. “Theodore will not retake this place. Karytaina will be our shield in the center of Morea.”

Before departing, he gathered his men and addressed them. “We march back to Glarentza with victories in hand. But this is only the beginning. The Ottomans grow stronger, and Theodore still clings to Mystras. We must prepare for the battles ahead.”

As the column set off once more, Constantine glanced back at the small but resolute castle on the hill, a symbol of his growing foothold in the Morea.

By the time Constantine’s column reached Elis's rolling plains, the tension of the past months began to ease. The familiar sight of Glarentza on the horizon brought a flicker of relief to the weary soldiers.

Constantine rode at the head of his army, his thoughts already shifting to the challenges ahead. The Ottomans loomed like a storm on the horizon, Theodore remained entrenched in Mystras, and resources were stretched thinner than he liked. Behind him, George and Andreas discussed plans to replenish supplies, repair equipment, and recruit more troops.

As they approached the gates, the sound of horns announced their arrival. Inside, the people of Glarentza lined the streets to welcome them, cheering as the soldiers passed through. Though the celebration was subdued, there was a sense of pride in the air—Constantine had brought victories where others might have faltered.

Waiting for them at the town hall was Theophilus Dragas, the man Constantine had left in charge of Glarentza during his campaign. Dressed in modest but elegant robes, Theophilus greeted Constantine with a deep bow.

“Despot,” Theophilus said warmly. “Glarentza stands ready for your return.”

Constantine dismounted, clasping Theophilus by the arm. “It is good to be home, cousin. How fares our business ?”

“Strong, Despot,” Theophilus replied. “ But I bring news from Rome—news that will shape much to come.”

Constantine’s expression sharpened. “What news?”

Theophilus spoke solemnly. “Pope Martin V is dead. He passed suddenly in February.”

George, standing nearby, crossed himself. “A loss for Christendom. Have they named a successor?”

“They have,” Theophilus confirmed. “The conclave elected Cardinal Condulmer, a Venetian, on March. He has taken the name Eugene IV. Word is that he has already made promises to the cardinals, pledging to share Church revenues and consult them on matters of importance."

Constantine leaned back in his chair, absorbing the news. “Martin was a pragmatic pope. His death could complicate things. Do we know where Eugene stands on union?”

Theophilus shook his head. “It’s too soon to tell, but he is described as devout and ambitious. There is talk of tensions already brewing between him and the Colonna family, who were loyal to Martin. A truce was arranged, but Rome is always restless.”

Constantine exchanged a glance with George. “Union is vital if we are to resist the Ottomans. If Eugene falters, it will fracture our efforts.”

George nodded. “We’ll need to watch this closely, Despot. Eugene’s leadership could determine whether the West remains an ally—or a liability.”

Constantine stood, his expression resolute. “For now, we rebuild and prepare. The road to unification is long, but we cannot allow disunity to cripple us. Let us hope Eugene understands the stakes.”

Theophilus bowed. “Glarentza is at your disposal, Despot. Whatever you need to ensure our survival, we will provide.”

Constantine placed a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “We’ll need every ounce of strength. The Ottomans are coming, and Theodore waits for his moment. But so long as we stand united, we will endure.”

image [https://i.imgur.com/4S3rELB.jpeg]