The road north from Thebes presented itself as an unnervingly serene corridor, rolling hills and olive groves on either side like an invitation too neat to be believed. The late spring sun slanted low in the sky, a gentle warmth that cast elongated shadows across the Byzantine column. Yet even the breeze, faintly scented with distant woodsmoke, felt charged with a tension that seasoned soldiers recognize at once. Someone was out there, watching.

Constantine rode at the head of the column, his features grave, his senses keyed to the faintest movement or sound. He spared a glance at Captain Andreas, whose scarred countenance appeared more grim than usual, as though bracing for the inevitable.

“Too open for my liking,” Andreas said quietly, so only Constantine could hear. His gaze roved over the uneven terrain and the tight pockets of olive trees that flanked the road. “If there are Ottomans around, this is exactly the spot I’d choose to lie in wait.”

Constantine’s grip on the reins tightened, following Andreas’s line of sight. Here, the geography curved and narrowed, a near-perfect funnel for ambush. “Agreed,” he said in a clipped tone. “See to it that we deploy extra scouts—make sure we’re not strolling into a trap.”

Giovanni Sforza trailed close behind with a small vanguard, his dark cloak catching the wind. He was uncharacteristically silent, though his eyes tracked each shifting branch and uneven contour of the hills. His silence spoke volumes.

And then it came. No warning, no flourish—a swift and vicious assault, unleashed before anyone had time to fully register the shift in the wind.

Arrows whispered through the air, finding their mark with disconcerting ease. The rearguard shouted in alarm, their cries almost drowned by the heavy thump of arrows piercing armor and flesh. Horses screamed, rearing in panic. The entire column shuddered, tension exploding into chaos.

“Shields!” Andreas roared. His voice cut cleanly through the discord, snapping the men into action. “Form ranks!”

Constantine wheeled his horse around, hand instinctively grasping his sword hilt. Soldiers scrambled to assemble, shields locking together in a frantic, battered line. Another wave of arrows hissed down, and then the Ottoman riders emerged from the hills in a dark, sudden tide, scimitars catching the sun.

“Cavalry to the flanks!” Constantine shouted, his voice rasping yet resolute. “Hold the center!”

Sforza was already moving. His mercenaries advanced with a deadly precision that only men acquainted with mortality possess. Sforza’s blade flashed as he slashed the first Ottoman who strayed too close, the act carrying a cold professionalism rather than any triumph.

Near the center of the column, the Pyrvelos marksmen exhibited the cool efficiency of veterans. Their commander barked short, controlled orders, and firearms cracked the air. The Ottomans checked their charge, unnerved by the unfamiliar thunder of gunpowder and the lethal results it delivered.

Constantine dismounted, sword in hand, and took his place among the pikemen holding the central line. The din was overwhelming—metal clashing on metal, the roar of men fighting for their lives, the terrible wailing of the injured.

Andreas fought beside Constantine, his shield battered and stained but still in one piece. “They’re probing,” he growled, driving his sword home with grim efficiency. “They want to see where we’re weak.”

“They won’t find it here,” Constantine said, a quiet hardness in his voice.

On the left flank, Sforza’s cavalry smashed through a knot of Ottoman riders, scattering them. Sforza reined in, turning sharply to rally his men. “Don’t let them slip away,” he called, eyes narrowed. “Make them pay for every step.”

Realizing the trap was failing, the Ottomans began to withdraw, the retreat messy and undisciplined. Another Pyrvelos volley cut down the stragglers, and the sounds of fighting faded, replaced by the groans of the wounded and the weary panting of survivors who’d glimpsed death and lived to tell of it.

Constantine surveyed the wreckage: bodies—Ottoman and Byzantine alike—strewn across the ground, the soil soaking up blood as the sun dipped behind the hills. His men moved among the fallen, some offering aid, others administering the final mercy to those beyond saving.

Sforza approached on horseback, armor dented and smeared with gore, though he wore his habitual wry smile. “Well, that was bracing,” he remarked, wiping his blade before sheathing it. “They underestimated us again. The Pyrvelos gave us the advantage, but the Ottomans will eventually adapt.”

Constantine ignored the familiar flippancy, turning to Andreas. “Our losses?”

Andreas winced, running a hand across his brow. “Ninety-seven dead, more than a hundred wounded. Could’ve been worse, but it’s nothing to celebrate.”

Constantine let the figures settle in the air, his eyes drawn toward the hills that had yielded their hidden threat. “They’ll return,” he said quietly. “We’ve pushed too far north.”

“Aye, that’s my assessment too, Despot,” Andreas said. “We should regroup. We’re stretched thin.”

A brief pause, then Constantine nodded. “All right. Pull the men back to Thebes. Strengthen the defenses. It’s best we hold what we have for now.”

Sforza raised an eyebrow. “Retreat, Despot? I thought this Ieros Skopos was all about advancing your cause.”

“And how well can we defend holy ground if we’ve lost the men to do so?” Constantine’s voice was edged with ice. “We’ve shown our strength. Now we consolidate it. No sense in overextending. Moving further north was a mistake."

Sforza gave a careless shrug, though a hint of respect might have lurked behind the gesture. “As you wish. But the Ottomans won’t be idle while you dig in. This is merely the opening act.”

They did not call it a retreat. That word stung too deeply, sowing doubt in the ranks. Instead, Constantine issued a single directive: “We regroup in Thebes.” The phrase was chosen with care, his voice allowing no quarrel. And so the men marched south with an efficiency that spoke of lessons painfully learned.

The roads they’d traveled dew days before seemed strangely elongated now, as though the memory of ambush had stretched the distance. Wagons groaned under their load of wounded, mingling with the muted clink of armor and the dull scuff of boots in dust. The air carried stale traces of burned-out campfires and that faint, metallic tang of blood—an unwelcome reminder of things best left behind.

Constantine rode at the column’s core, flanked by Andreas on one side and Sforza on the other. Andreas wore his tension plainly, the old scar on his face catching the sunlight as he scanned each ridge for signs of pursuit. In contrast, Sforza maintained an air of indolent ease, though Constantine knew the mercenary’s gaze was no less searching.

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“Think they’ll come for us again this year?” Andreas asked quietly, eyes still on the crest of a distant hill. “Murad won’t ignore what’s happened here. Not for long.”

Constantine inclined his head, his voice low. “We’ll prepare our defenses. We won’t be taken unawares.”

Sforza allowed himself a small smirk. “Your men did right by you, Despot. They held fast and kept their wits. But a blade’s only good until it bends or breaks. If Murad returns with force, the Hexamilion will be your strongest line again.”

Constantine turned, his expression giving nothing away. “We’ll use Thebes and Athens as fortified bulwarks, but in the end, I agree—Hexamilion must stand.”

Sforza’s grin sharpened. “They’ll hold the Ottomans off for a spell, yes. But the real fallback is the wall.”

Conversation subsided then, each man turning inward as they descended onto the plains that spread before Thebes. Old walls, worn by centuries of strife and weather, rose before them—a silent reassurance against a landscape of uncertainties. The gates, swung open to admit the returning column, seemed to grant more than just passage; they offered a moment’s relief, a promise that they were, at least temporarily, safe.

Constantine dismounted in the central square, the fatigue of these last days pressing at his shoulders. Andreas began issuing orders in curt tones—arranging the wounded, dispatching patrols—while Sforza slipped away into Thebes’ busy lanes, his movements as elusive as a gentle wind.

The council chamber in Thebes was an altogether different affair from the severe lines of Constantine’s hall in Glarentza or the stark utilitarianism of the Hexamilion Wall. Here, the walls wore their long history openly: plaster patched over cracks that hinted at wars and rebellions past. The air smelled of old wax and fresh ink, and the table before Constantine was crowded with maps, reports, and the unspoken pressure of expectation.

Andreas, bent over one of those maps, traced a worn finger along the same roads and ridges they had only just traversed. “The Ottomans are testing us,” he said, voice low and clipped. “Murad’s main force might be heading north, but I’d wager Turahan Bey’s men will make another pass. He knows these hills. He’ll strike again, and soon.”

Constantine, his eyes never leaving the parchment, merely inclined his head. “Indeed” he said softly.

Andreas straightened, wearing the unease of a soldier who has lived through one ambush too many. “So we hold Thebes, then?”

“Yes.” Constantine’s tone was firm. “We will leave a permanent garrison of three hundred— same as Athens. These cities must do more than stand for our cause; they must wear down the enemy, force them to bleed for every stone if they want them.”

Just then, Sforza ambled in, irreverent as always. He tossed a sealed parchment onto the table, the corners battered from hard travel. “Word from up north,” he announced, almost cheerfully. “Murad’s tied up with an Albanian revolt. Seems a local lord managed to humiliate one of his generals—kicked out half his teeth, from what the merchants say. There’s talk he’ll send another army to settle matters.”

Constantine lifted the letter, his expression darkening as his eyes skimmed the contents. “Interesting,” he murmured. “If Murad’s bogged down in Albania, he won’t have the men to look south. It buys us time.”

Andreas arched a brow. “A rebellion dropped in our laps—like the Lord’s own handiwork.”

Constantine set down the parchment, letting his gaze travel around the chamber. “It’s a respite,” he said. “Time to rebuild, gather intelligence, and prepare for the fights that matter most.”

Sforza’s grin turned speculative. “And Albania, Despot? The enemy of my enemy could be quite useful.”

Constantine’s jaw tightened. “I’ll send ambassadors north. If they can keep Murad occupied, so much the better. But no troops. Not yet at least.”

Andreas gave a somber nod, his eyes distant. “A risk, all the same,” he said quietly, “relying on rebels so far beyond our reach.”

Constantine inhaled, then exhaled slowly, as though weighing the present against an unseen future. “We’ll learn what we can. If there’s a real chance they’ll stand with us, we’ll show them the benefits of a Byzantine alliance.” He paused, glancing at Andreas. “We need allies, my friend. Wherever we can find them.”

The rest of the meeting slipped into the practicalities of supply lines and garrison duties—ordinary tasks that nevertheless held the fate of cities in their details. One by one, the others drifted away. Constantine, however, remained, leaning over the table, hands braced on its edge. The soft glow of a single candle danced across the maps, highlighting uncertain borders and roads that, for now, were still under his control.

Andreas lingered at the threshold, speaking in a careful hush. “Have you considered, Despot, how far this might take us? How it all ends?”

Constantine didn’t turn. When he answered, his voice was steady, sure. “Every single day.”

The rain started at dusk, soft at first, enough only to darken the cobblestones of Thebes and dampen the cloaks of soldiers moving under the city’s time-worn arches. The people—devoutly Orthodox and heartily relieved to be free of the Acciaioli yoke—greeted Constantine’s arrival with a fervor that mingled gratitude and hope. From his vantage on the governor’s palace terrace, he surveyed the subdued bustle below: weapons being tended, stores accounted for, quiet prayers whispered at makeshift shrines.

A firm tread on the rain-slick stones behind him signaled Captain Andreas’s approach. “Despot,” Andreas began in a measured tone, clearly weighing whether to speak at all. “The escorts are assembled. Fifty men, carefully chosen, every one loyal.”

Constantine turned, face unreadable in the half-light. “Fifty should suffice. The journey to Mystras isn’t that long, and the roads, at least for the moment, are safe.”

“For the moment,” Andreas echoed, stepping nearer. The lines on his weathered brow told of too many night watches and too many bodies lost along this road. “Still can change faster than we’d like.”

A small, elusive smile flickered across Constantine’s lips. “Precisely why you’re staying here. I need the duchy of Athens quiet, and you’re the one to keep it that way.”

Andreas’s face hardened with reluctance. “I ought to be by your side, my Despot.”

Constantine’s reply came calmly, though unyielding. “Thebes needs a commander the men trust. Sforza, for all his uses, isn’t that man.”

“And Sforza himself?” Andreas asked, a note of distaste creeping through his deliberate neutrality.

Constantine turned back to the city lights. “He’ll remain here for now. He’s still on contract, and I’ll want him at Glarentza soon enough. But not yet.”

Andreas drew a breath, fighting back whatever protest he might have voiced. “Politics,” he murmured. “You’re entering a world of them in Mystras, Despot. Theodore may have vacated it, but his shadow will linger. His supporters aren’t going to open their arms to a new regime overnight.”

“They’ll open them if they know what’s good for them,” Constantine answered cynicaly. “Besides, George Sphrantzes has held matters in check for us there. Theodore is long gone, away in Selymbria under the Emperor’s orders. Mystras is mine now and its people will learn that soon enough.”

The rain intensified, drumming on the palace battlements. Constantine faced Andreas again, eyes steady. “See to your orders. Fortify this city. Keep a close watch on Turahan’s men—if they stir so much as a leaf across the border, I want word at once.”

Andreas saluted, gauntleted hand clanking against his breastplate. “You’ll know the moment anything changes.”

Constantine inclined his head, ending the exchange. The captain hesitated—just an instant—then left, his footsteps fading into the wet corridors.

Departure came quietly, much as Constantine preferred. Fifty men, chosen for their composure as well as their skill, slipped out in the faint torchlight. Their armor glimmered in the intermittent glow, the torches held low to mask the full sight of their exit.

The road to Mystras was veiled in mist, rolling hills and dense forests serving as a silent audience to their passage. The only sounds were the wet thud of hooves and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.

The towers of Mystras rose in the gray dawn, reminding Constantine of the siege from last year. The city’s fortified walls seemed to watch them warily as the main gates creaked open—hesitant, as though unsure whether to admit this new overlord.

Dismounting in the main square, Constantine made no effort to hide the iron authority in his stance. The townsfolk who ventured close shrank back, eyes flickering with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Near the front of the column stood George Sphrantzes, who bowed slightly and announced: “The city is yours, my Despot.”

Constantine nodded in greeting. “George. Have the council summoned before midday.”

Sphrantzes gave a solemn inclination of his head. “It will be so.”

His escort began to disperse, the men drifting off to their assigned corners of the city. Constantine alone lingered, letting his gaze wander the twisting streets and high walls of this “jewel of the Morea.” Mystras was his now. And, as the first hint of sunlight broke through the lifting clouds, he allowed himself the briefest moment to savor it—before duty returned and there was no more time for sentiment.

image [https://i.imgur.com/W6yGoW3.jpeg]