The first light of dawn filtered through the narrow windows of Constantine’s private chamber, casting soft streaks of gold across the austere stone walls. Beside him, Maria’s even breathing offered a rare balm to his frayed nerves. For nights now, her presence had been his quiet refuge against the relentless storm of duties pressing on him.

He watched her sleep, her dark hair spilling over the pillow, a faint crease still visible on her brow. There was something in the way she held herself, even in rest, that stirred a bittersweet pang in his chest. The memory of Emily—soft laughter, warm glances, a life untouched by war—rose unbidden. Maria was nothing like her, and yet, in moments like this, the echo was undeniable.

He shifted slightly, careful not to wake her. The bed creaked faintly, a sound swallowed by the stillness of the chamber. But then, a cry pierced the silence.

“No!” Maria bolted upright, her voice raw with terror, her hands clutching the blanket as if it could shield her from unseen horrors.

Constantine sat up at once, his heart pounding. “Maria,” he said softly, his voice steady despite his alarm. “It’s a dream. Only a dream. You’re safe.”

Her wide eyes searched the room, unseeing at first, before focusing on him. A gasp escaped her lips, and she shuddered, pressing trembling fingers to her face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice broken. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he said, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “Nightmares have a cruel grip. Do you want to tell me what you saw?”

She hesitated, her fingers twisting in the blanket. “It’s always the same,” she murmured, her voice hollow. “The soldiers, the fire, the screams... everything I loved burning to ash.”

He moved closer, drawing her into his arms with a gentleness that belied his warrior's strength. “Those days are gone,” he assured her, his voice low and firm. “No harm will come to you here, not while I live.”

Maria rested her head against his chest, her body trembling against his. “Even awake, it feels so real. The heat of the flames, the weight of the loss. How do you escape your demons, Constantine?”

He paused, his hand stilling on her back. Her question, so simple, cut deep. How did he escape? The memories of his own battles were woven into his very being.

“I don’t escape them,” he said at last, his voice quiet. “But I face them by thinking of what I can still protect, who I can still protect.” He tilted her chin so their eyes met. “And by remembering that even in the darkest nights, the dawn still comes.”

Maria’s lips trembled, a faint smile breaking through her sorrow. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It isn’t,” he admitted with a faint, rueful smile. “Strength isn’t the absence of fear. It’s standing firm even when fear tries to root you in place.”

She reached up, her fingers grazing the line of his jaw, roughened with stubble. “You’ve shown me that kindness can be as strong as any blade.”

“And you’ve taught me that vulnerability isn’t weakness,” he replied, catching her hand and pressing it gently. “It’s a path to healing.”

Her gaze softened, and she leaned forward, her lips brushing his in a feather-light kiss. “I never thought I’d find peace in someone like you,” she whispered.

His brow arched, a flicker of playfulness breaking through the solemnity. “Someone like me?”

“A warrior. A ruler. A Despot,” she said, her tone lighter now. “But you’re more than that.”

“And so are you,” he said, his voice earnest. “More than the shadows that chase you.”

She sighed, settling against him once more, the tension easing from her shoulders. Her gaze drifted to a well-worn book on the bedside table, its pages faintly curled from frequent use.

“Will you stay?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

He tightened his arm around her, his hand tracing soothing circles on her arm. “Always,” he said. “Not even the day’s battles can draw me away from this.”

Her lips quirked into a soft smile. “The day,” she murmured. “Sometimes I fear what it will bring.”

He gazed toward the window, where the sun’s first rays illuminated the horizon. “The day will bring what it must,” he said. “But we’ll meet it together.”

Her voice, still tinged with uncertainty but steadier now, broke the quiet. “Together,” she echoed.

The morning sun was well above the horizon when George Sphrantzes found Constantine in the castle’s study, bent over maps of the Morea. The heavy oak door creaked as it opened, and Constantine glanced up, irritation flickering across his face before he tempered it with a polite nod.

“George,” Constantine said, gesturing to a nearby chair. “What brings you here so early?”

George inclined his head as he stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. “Despot,” he began, his tone careful, “I thought it wise to speak with you before the council convenes. There is a matter I feel warrants your attention.”

Constantine leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “A concern? Let’s hear it.”

George hesitated, his sharp gaze flicking toward the door as though ensuring their privacy. When he spoke again, his voice was low and deliberate. “It is about Maria.”

At her name, Constantine’s posture remained calm, though his eyes sharpened. “Go on.”

“Whispers have begun to circulate,” George said, choosing his words with care. “Her presence in your private chambers is no secret. And her joining you at formal dinners, sitting in the place that once belonged to Theodora...” He paused, letting the weight of the observation sink in.

Constantine inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the truth. “It was bound to attract attention.”

“It was,” George agreed, his tone steady. “And now it has. To many, it appears as though Maria is stepping into the role of your wife—not just in private, but in the public eye. It is too soon, Constantine. The court questions the wisdom of such an informal arrangement.”

Constantine considered this for a moment, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of the table. “They do not question my attachment to her,” he said finally, his tone measured. “They question what it signifies for the realm.”

“Exactly,” George said, his gaze intent. “Maria’s presence, while understandable, is beginning to overshadow the expectations the court has for you as a ruler. There are alliances to consider, Constantine. Marriages have always been the foundation of power in the empire. To some, this”—he gestured subtly—“appears not just impulsive, but reckless.”

Constantine stood, his movements deliberate, and began to pace the room. “Do you think I do not see the value in an alliance?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm. “I know what a marriage can secure—troops, wealth, political ties. I know the weight it carries.”

“Then you also know,” George said, stepping forward, “that this is the time to act. A union with a royal house, especially one with power and influence, could strengthen your position here in the Morea—and beyond.”

“And Maria?” Constantine asked, his tone cool.

George’s expression softened. “Maria is a fine woman, Despot, and she clearly brings you solace. But the court sees only what you show them. Her presence at your side, so soon after meeting her and with no formal recognition—it invites uncertainty. If she were merely a private companion, the court could accept it, even if reluctantly. But you present her as something more, and that stirs discontent.”

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Constantine’s lips pressed into a thin line as he turned back to the table, his gaze falling on the map of the Morea. “You believe I am acting impulsively,” he said, more a statement than a question.

“I believe you are letting your heart guide you where your head should rule,” George said gently. “Maria has no noble blood, no ties to strengthen your position. And the court sees her sitting at your table, wearing gowns finer than those of many noblewomen, as if she is already your equal.” He paused, his tone softening further. “It is not about what she means to you, Constantine. It is about what she represents to them.”

For a long moment, Constantine said nothing. Then he spoke, his voice measured. “I do not dismiss your counsel, George. I know the court’s gaze is ever-watchful, and I know what they expect. A union with a powerful house could bring allies to our side.” He looked up, his eyes sharp. “But do not mistake understanding for acceptance. I will not wed for politics alone, nor will I cast Maria aside like a pawn in a game of alliances.”

George inclined his head slightly. “And I would not suggest you do so. But tread carefully, Constantine. If you are to keep her close, do so discreetly. Let her be your refuge, not your undoing.”

“And if I were to take another wife?” Constantine asked, his tone contemplative.

George hesitated, sensing the shift in Constantine’s mood. “If you choose wisely,” he said carefully, “it could strengthen your position without diminishing Maria’s role in your life. It would not be unprecedented.”

Constantine nodded, his gaze distant as his thoughts churned. “You are dismissed, George,” he said finally.

The door closed softly behind his advisor, and Constantine leaned heavily against the table, his hands braced on its surface. He stared at the maps before him, the lines of his territories blurring as his mind drifted to Maria—her touch, her laughter.

He knew George was right. A marriage alliance could be a decisive move. But the thought of diminishing Maria in the eyes of the court, of reducing her to a shadow in his life, felt like a betrayal.

The morning sun poured through the high, arched windows of the council chamber in Clermont Castle, filling the room with golden light and soft shadows. Constantine sat at the head of the long wooden table, his expression calm but touched with a rare warmth. The mood was bright.

Though the siege of Mystras had ended in frustration, Constantine had successfully held his ground against the Ottomans. This victory solidified his control over most of the Morea, directly or through loyal allies—a level of unity the region had not seen in decades. It offered a glimmer of hope for the empire’s future.

Constantine leaned back slightly in his chair, surveying the faces of his council. Theophilus Dragas, the overseer of the Morea Company, was the first to speak, his tone steady but carrying a note of pride.

“Despot, I am pleased to report that the additional printing presses have exceeded expectations. Latin and Greek Bibles are being produced in record numbers alongside Plato's Dialogues and Latin and Greek Psalters. Demand continues to grow, but we can safely say that our production now can meet any demand.”

Murmurs of approval rippled through the room. Constantine inclined his head. “Excellent work, Theophilus.”

Before Theophilus could sit back, Petros, the council’s pragmatic financier, leaned forward, his fingers steepled. “I must add, my Despot, that this success is mirrored in our treasury. Thanks to the booming trade and the publishing company, we are on track to exceed the thirty thousand gold ducats in profits goal by the end of this month already.”

The room stilled, the weight of the figure settling over them. Even Plethon allowed himself a faint smile at the news. Constantine nodded, letting the triumph sink in before responding. “A remarkable achievement. Let us ensure it is reinvested wisely.”

George Sphrantzes, always cautious, cleared his throat. “Indeed, Despot, the successes are undeniable, but I must bring to your attention a growing concern. The shortages in our grain stores are worsening. The constant influx of people to Glarentza is putting pressure on our supplies. Even with the new water mills and plows, we must import grain from abroad to avoid famine.”

Constantine frowned, his thoughts already turning to potential solutions. “Petros, begin looking into securing grain from reliable suppliers.”

Petros nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Of course, Despot. The Genoese seem to be our best option for now. However, there is another pressing issue—our port. The current volume of trade has exceeded its capacity. If we wish to sustain this momentum, expansion is essential.”

Constantine straightened in his chair, weighing the implications. “Prepare an estimate, Petros. I need a clear understanding of the costs, required labor, and the timeframe for the work. Also, investigate where we can find a skilled architect, perhaps from Constantinople or even Venice if necessary. This port is critical to our future, and it must be expanded properly. A proper shipyard will also be a necessary addition.”

“Yes, Despot,” Petros replied. “I will begin the preparations immediately.”

The conversation naturally turned to the ongoing threat posed by the Ottomans and the status of repairs on the Hexamilion Wall. After a lengthy analysis of reports and intelligence, the council agreed that it was unlikely for Murad to assemble his main force for a campaign in the Morea so late in the season. It was early summer, and the logistical challenges of mounting an extensive invasion force before winter made such an endeavor improbable.

“If we do not receive any worrisome reports by late August,” Constantine concluded, “we can be reasonably assured that this year will pass without a major Ottoman offensive. However, we cannot afford to grow complacent. The Hexamilion Wall is our first defense, and its fortifications must remain a priority. The more we strengthen it, the better prepared we will be for whatever comes next year.”

The conversation then shifted to the internal threat posed by Theodore. George brought up the newly completed small fortress at Karytaina, situated strategically in the middle of the Morea.

“This new fort,” George said, “will give us an early warning of any movements Theodore might make. Its position allows us to monitor his forces and secure the region should he act against us. That said, it seems highly unlikely he would risk open hostilities at this time. His position is tenuous enough as it is.”

Constantine nodded. “We’ll remain vigilant, but I agree—Theodore will not risk a direct confrontation, he is weak and with limited forces. Still, the fort at Karytaina is a reassurance. It gives us a crucial edge in maintaining order within the central Morea.”

The conversation soon after turned to the matter of the new Pope. Plethon cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly. “My Despot, as you are aware, Pope Martin V has passed, and his successor, Pope Eugenius IV, is now consolidating his authority. Bessarion has already made initial contact on our behalf and has begun laying the groundwork for further discussions. In his letter from Rome, he reports that the new Pope has expressed interest in our proposal for a book trade agreement. This could present an opportunity not only to advance economic ties but also to garner support for the union between the churches.”

Constantine nodded, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. “Then it is time I make the journey myself. The Pope will need to see that we are serious in our efforts, not just for the union but for securing the survival of the empire. Direct negotiation could yield benefits far beyond mere manuscripts.”

Plethon’s expression shifted, becoming more contemplative. “The journey to Rome would indeed be critical,” he said. “But there is another opportunity we must consider before you embark.”

He straightened, his eyes fixed on Constantine. “I recently received a letter from an old acquaintance, Stylianos —a priest on Zakynthos. He and I knew each other well during my early years in Mystras. He writes of growing turmoil on the island. The Catholic bishop holds sway over a predominantly Orthodox population, and the people grow restless under his authority. With the war between Tocco and Memnone ravaging the region, Zakynthos is essentially up for grabs. Tocco’s rule has all but collapsed beyond his stronghold in Arta. On the island itself, there remains only a small guard of Tocco’s troops—hardly enough to hold the territory if we act quickly. If we move now, we may establish influence there before Venice steps in.”

Plethon paused, his eyes flickering toward Constantine. “This priest, knowing my views and connections, has reached out to us directly. He believes our intervention could stabilize the island and restore Orthodox leadership to its rightful place.”

Constantine’s eyes narrowed as he processed the implications, his mind racing ahead. Before he could speak, George interjected, his tone deliberate. “Zakynthos,” he said slowly. “A foothold in the Ionian, so close to Glarentza. It could serve as a vital stepping stone for expansion.”

Constantine nodded, the idea taking shape. “Exactly. If we act quickly, we can sail there, stabilize the situation, secure the priest’s support, and bring the island under our control.”

He leaned back, considering. “From there, we continue to Rome. I will negotiate directly with the Pope for a potential book deal and gauge his stance on the union. Simultaneously, we can explore the possibility of hiring mercenaries with the funds we’ve amassed. A strong mercenary company could bolster our defenses against a potential Ottoman attack next year.”

Plethon leaned forward, his expression cautious. “A bold plan, Despot, but tell me—have you consulted your brother, the Emperor? Such an action may risk overstepping your authority. If John feels undermined, he may not support your larger goals.”

Constantine met his gaze, his voice calm but firm. “I have already sent word to Emperor John, detailing our plans, including the schemes of our brother Theodore. However, no reply has yet reached us. Rumors suggest the Ottomans may be closing the straits near Constantinople, which could explain the delay. For now, we must act decisively.”

The council exchanged uneasy glances but nodded in agreement. There was no room for hesitation. The empire’s survival depended on their ability to seize every opportunity.

Constantine rose from his seat, his presence commanding. “Let us move forward on all fronts. Petros, George, Plethon, Theophilus, Andreas—coordinate your efforts and report to me within the week."

He paused, his gaze sweeping the room before continuing. “If by late August we see no sign of movement from Murad’s forces, we will proceed with the expedition to Zakynthos. From there, we sail to Rome to finalize our negotiations with the Pope. Time is short, so ensure all preparations are in place.”