The court of Sultan Murad II was a study in grandeur and order. Richly woven carpets in crimson and gold stretched across the marble floors, reflecting the flickering light of brass chandeliers that hung from the vaulted ceilings. The scent of rosewater lingered in the air, mingling with the faint smoke of burning incense. Courtiers and officials gathered in small clusters along the walls, their subdued whispers betraying a nervous energy.

At the far end of the hall stood the Sultan’s throne, a masterwork of ebony and ivory, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Murad II entered with deliberate steps, his indigo robes adorned with golden crescents catching the light. Behind him walked Halil Pasha, his Grand Vizier, whose sharp eyes surveyed the room with habitual scrutiny.

Murad ascended the throne with practiced grace, settling himself into its high back. He adjusted the scimitar at his side—a ceremonial blade jeweled with emeralds—before raising his hand to command silence.

“Let us begin,” he said, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of command.

Halil Pasha stepped forward, his head bowed slightly in deference. “My Sultan, news arrives from Rome. The conclave has chosen a new pope. Eugene IV, a Venetian...”

A murmur rippled through the court at the mention of Venice. Murad’s expression darkened. “A Venetian pope? Fortune smiles strangely at the Latins. Does he bring his city’s ambitions with him to St. Peter’s throne?”

“Venice has not forgotten Thessalonica,” Halil replied, his tone cautious. “Though they made peace with us, their pride still bleeds. A Venetian on the papal throne could become a rallying cry for our enemies in the West.”

Murad leaned forward, his fingers tapping the armrest of his throne. “What do we know of this Eugene?”

“Little, my Sultan, though his ascent was swift. Rumors say he pledged half the Church’s revenue to his cardinals, ensuring their loyalty before his election. His coronation was marked with a great ceremony, but there are already whispers of him uniting Western powers. Crusades, alliances—these may be his tools.”

The Sultan’s brow furrowed. “The Latins cling to the delusion that they can undo what has been wrought. Let them build their crusades and alliances. The walls of Thessalonica now bear our crescent.”

Halil inclined his head. “Indeed, my Sultan. The treaty with Venice remains firm for now. They formally recognized our dominion over Thessalonica just last year, but their merchants still linger in our ports. Their patience is thin, though their coffers are deep.”

Another advisor, a provincial governor in robes of emerald green, stepped forward. “My Sultan, with respect, a Venetian pope could wield both spiritual and material power. He could unite the Western kings in ways others have not.”

Murad silenced him with a raised hand. “Let him try. Even the strongest of alliances falters under the weight of mistrust. We will keep watch, but the West is noise—nothing more for now.”

The court of Sultan Murad II was alive with tension and talks. After discussing the recent election of Eugene IV, murmurs of concern filled the room. Murad II, seated upon his ornate ebony throne, raised a hand to silence the whispers.

“Enough of the West,” he said firmly, his deep voice echoing across the hall. “Their games are tiresome; let us focus on matters within our own borders. The new Sanjak of Albania—how does it fare?”

Halil Pasha stepped forward, his expression composed yet cautious. “My Sultan, the restructuring progresses, but there are... challenges. The timar system has replaced much of the old nobility. Most of the timars are now in the hands of our Anatolian sipahis. The remainder, in more remote areas, have been granted to local Albanian sipahis, both Christian and Muslim.”

Murad nodded slowly. “And what of resistance? These changes do not sit easily with the old families.”

“Indeed, my Sultan,” Halil replied. “Many among the former nobility chafe at their loss of power. The cadastral survey—necessary for our revenue—has further strained relations. Some peasants, unwilling to register and face increased taxes, have fled into the mountains. Others are influenced by their lords, who whisper of rebellion. It is said the rural areas are not yet fully under our control.”

A shadow crossed Murad's face. “Do they dare defy the might of our Empire? The mountains offer no refuge. The very stones will betray those who oppose us.”

Halil lowered his head. “Most of the peasants have submitted, my Sultan, but some of the nobility remains a concern. They still harbor dreams of power, despite their lands now serving the sipahis. Armed conflict is not out of the question, though isolated for now.”

Another advisor, a grizzled bey with a scar running across his cheek, stepped forward. “The new taxation, my Sultan,” he said, his voice rough but deferential. “It weighs heavily on the people. These burdens stir resentment.”

Murad’s expression remained impassive, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “They must understand that submission to the Ottoman state requires sacrifice.”

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Halil inclined his head. “Of course, my Sultan. Yet, we must tread carefully. The nobles may be weak now, but desperation could unite them with the peasants. A flame, if left unchecked, may grow into a fire.”

Murad leaned back on his throne, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest. “Then we shall ensure that the flame is smothered before it can burn. Increase patrols in the mountains. Ensure the sipahis are firm but fair. Those who submit to the Crescent shall prosper; those who rebel will face the sword.”

He paused, his tone softening slightly. “The Sanjak of Albania is a vital link in our dominion. It is not the Albanian peasants or even their lords that concern me—it is the Venetians and their meddling. Their pope may be new, but their ambitions are old. Let us not forget their covetous eyes linger near our borders.”

The court nodded in agreement, the weight of Murad’s words settling over them like a heavy cloak.

Before more could be said, the heavy doors at the chamber's far end groaned open. A herald entered, his voice ringing through the room. “My Sultan, a messenger has arrived with urgent news from the Morea. Turahan Bey has returned.”

A ripple of curiosity spread through the chamber. Turahan Bey was known for his swift victories and ruthless efficiency. His return, however, seemed premature.

Murad's brow furrowed slightly. “Summon him,” he commanded, his voice echoing with a hint of displeasure.

The herald bowed and departed. The court was abuzz with speculation, whispered guesses and quiet exchanges filling the air. Murad’s gaze swept the room, his face unreadable.

“Turahan returns from the Morea,” he said, his voice breaking through the chatter. “Let us see what tidings he brings from Constantine and his schemes.”

The court fell silent once more as they awaited the arrival of the general.

Moments later, the doors opened again. Turahan Bey entered the chamber, his armor still dusted with the grime of travel, his cloak torn at the edges, and his gait betrayed a limp. He moved to the center of the court, kneeling before the Sultan.

Murad studied him for a moment, his expression impassive. “Rise, Turahan,” he commanded. “Speak. What brings you back from the Morea so swiftly?”

“My Sultan,” Turahan began, his voice rough. “I bring grave tidings from the Morea.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. Turahan straightened, though the weight of failure pulled at his shoulders.

“Constantine has grown strong, far stronger than anticipated. He has amassed an army equipped with weapons unlike any I've encountered before.”

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in.

“Weapons, you say?” Murad questioned, his voice laced with skepticism. “What manner of weapons could the Byzantines possess that would pose a threat to our forces?”

Turahan drew a deep breath. “Cannons, my Sultan. Powerful cannons with devastating accuracy. And firearms—weapons wielded by their foot soldiers that unleash a barrage of shots from afar.”

“You say they had cannons?”

Turahan nodded cautiously. “Yes, my Sultan. Not merely those bombards we have encountered before. Their cannons were different, more precise.”

Murad’s eyes narrowed. “And these hand weapons you speak of?”

“They are small hand cannons, my Sultan,” Turahan explained, holding his hands apart to demonstrate. “Devastating at close range. Their soldiers carried them in great numbers, firing rapidly and retreating behind their lines to reload. They lack the cannon's power, but their numbers were enough to break our formations.”

Murmurs rippled through the court. Murad silenced them with a raised hand, leaning forward to study Turahan’s weary face. “And what of their tactics? How did they use these weapons to such effect?”

Turahan swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to the floor as he carefully chose his words. “They fought like disciplined units, my Sultan. The cannons targeted our cavalry, breaking the charge before we reached their positions. The infantry, armed with these hand weapons, formed a second line of defense. When we pressed forward, they unleashed a relentless volley. They were fewer than us but fought as if they had double our numbers.”

Murad’s expression darkened, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his throne. “Constantine has done more than defend his fractured lands. He has prepared for war—true war. Such discipline and innovation are not the hallmarks of a desperate man but of a ruler who dares to dream beyond his means.”

Halil Pasha stepped forward, his voice cautious. “My Sultan, if the Byzantines have acquired such weapons and learned their use, then they must have a source. Perhaps the Venetians or Genoese have supplied them. This weapons is not of their making.”

Murad considered this, his gaze distant for a moment before snapping back to Turahan. “What else did you see of their weapons? Were they Byzantine forges, or do you suspect foreign hands behind this?”

“I could not determine their origin, my Sultan,” Turahan admitted, his voice laced with frustration. “But it is likely they were imported. The Byzantines have long relied on Venetian trade, and these weapons are beyond their means to create unaided.”

Murad rose from his throne, his figure imposing as he began to pace. The courtiers watched in tense silence, their heads bowed. He gestured to Halil.

“We must know more. Dispatch spies to the Morea. Let them learn the origin of these weapons.”

Halil bowed deeply. “It shall be done, my Sultan.”

Murad paused, staring at the map of the Morea unfurled on a nearby table. His fingers traced the jagged coastline and the marked defensive line of the Hexamilion Wall. “It is too late for a proper campaign now” he mused aloud. “Autumn will come too soon to assemble the forces I require. But next spring...”

He turned to the court, his voice rising with conviction. “Next spring, we shall march. Constantine and his cannons will meet the full might of the Ottoman army. We will not merely subdue the Morea—we will annihilate its resistance.”

Halil bowed. “As you command, my Sultan. Shall we consider Constantinople as a target too? Their capital remains a thorn in our side.”

“No.” Murad’s response was swift. “A siege of Constantinople would drain our coffers and our men, while leaving the Balkans vulnerable. Let Constantine revel in his small victory. Next year, we will crush him in his lair.”

Turahan bowed low, his voice steady despite the weight of his shame. “I will redeem myself, my Sultan. I will learn from this failure.”

Murad regarded him for a moment, his expression inscrutable. “You will have the chance, Turahan Bey. Until then, you will oversee reconnaissance of the Morea. Know its terrain, its villages, its defenses. You will redeem yourself by providing us the keys to its downfall.”

Turahan bowed deeply, his relief palpable. “It shall be done, my Sultan.”

Murad dismissed the court with a wave of his hand, but he lingered by the map as the room emptied. His fingers hovered over the Morea’s jagged coastline, his thoughts shrouded in cold calculation.

“Constantine,” he murmured to himself. “You've bought yourself time, but time only sharpens my blade.”

As the heavy doors closed with a resonant thud, the chamber descended into silence. The faint crackle of oil lamps and the lingering scent of incense were all that remained.