After days of travel, Oleksandr finally reaches the rugged mountains of Kruja, and the sight that greets him is both imposing and awe-inspiring. He sees the fortress, strong and elegant, built of limestone and crowned with square towers and arched windows. The ivy-covered battlements give it a sense of timelessness and solitude, while the greenery creeping up the walls adds a touch of life to its stoic presence. And the steep cliffs behind it seem to offer protection and a sense of solitude. It's a fortress that stands firm against the world, and a symbol of the rebellion's strength. As Oleksandr approaches the castle and passes through the small township, he notices the same hardy and suspicious nature of the people here. They regard him with a wary eye, and he's not entirely sure if it's just because he's a foreigner or because of his reputation. But there's less outright hostility in their gazes than he observed in the highlanders of the mountains. Oleksandr keeps a steady pace on his horse, the animal's hooves clacking against the rocky path as they wind their way towards the castle. As Oleksandr approaches the castle, he notices the soldiers guarding the entrance. They wear white brimless caps, thick woolen tunics, and leather vests that are reinforced with chainmail. These soldiers are clearly ready for battle, and their gazes follow Oleksandr with suspicion and scrutiny as he eyes their curved longswords. He approaches the soldiers at the entrance of the castle and states his purpose, his voice firm and direct.

"I come for Skanderbeg," he says. "I request an audience with him." The soldiers regard him with caution, their eyes flicking from him to each other as they consider his words. Then one of them, a grizzled veteran with a jagged scar on his cheek, steps forward and speaks.

"Who are you?" He asks gruffly.

"I am Oleksandr of Siberia. I am a friend of your lord." The grizzled soldier eyes Oleksandr skeptically, his gaze taking in the warrior's tall, muscular frame and the sword at his hip.

"A friend of the lord, eh?" He asks, his voice still gruff. "And how do we know you speak the truth, hm?" Oleksandr draws his scimitar in a non-threatening manner, displaying it.

"He gifted me this. Two years ago. It is your kin's craftsmanship, yes?" The soldiers' eyes fall to the scimitar in Oleksandr's hand, their gazes taking in the fine craftsmanship and the sharp, gleaming blade. The grizzled veteran squints at it, then nods slowly.

"Aye," he concedes, his voice lowering an octave. "That does look like one of our own blades." The other soldiers lean in, their gazes flickering over the weapon with renewed interest. The soldiers exchange glances, clearly wary of Oleksandr and his claims. The veteran studies him for a moment longer before sighing.

"Very well," he says. "We'll take you to speak with him." With a gesture, two of the soldiers step forward, gesturing for Oleksandr to dismount and surrender his weapons. He carefully dismounts his horse, and obediently surrenders his weapons to the soldiers. He understands that this is standard procedure, and he doesn't want to unnecessarily provoke them. The soldiers gather up his gear, holding his blades with respect but still eyeing him cautiously. Oleksandr follows the veteran through the gates and into the limestone castle, his footsteps echoing softly on the stone floors. The inside of the castle is both sturdy and elegant, the walls crafted with a master's skill. Torches cast a warm glow over the stone floors, and the air is cool and refreshing. As he walks, Oleksandr feels the eyes of soldiers and servants on him, their gazes curious and wary of the stranger in their midst. Oleksandr follows the veteran into the main hall of the castle. He is about to speak, when Skanderbeg appears from another door, greeting him with a familiar grin.

"Ah, Oleksandr," Skanderbeg says, his voice warm. Oleksandr bows his head in greeting.

"Iskander," he replies, his voice respectful. Skanderbeg grins widely, clearly pleased to see his friend and comrade. Skanderbeg sits down, his face returning to his usual hard stoicism.

"I'd like to say it's nice to see you again, but something tells me you're not here for a friendly visit." Oleksandr nods, his own expression grim.

"Aye. I come bearing news of the worst sort. The Ottomans are on the march. They'll be here in two months, with an army large enough to crush your rebellion." Skanderbeg's eyes narrow as Oleksandr speaks, his face hardening at the news.

"Two months?" He grits out. "How large are their numbers?" He leans forward in his seat, his mind working furiously.

"Seventy-thousand strong." Skanderbeg's eyes widen at Oleksandr's words, his face darkening as the gravity of the situation becomes clear.

"Seventy…" He mutters, his voice tinged with dread. "We will be outnumbered, seven-to-one." Oleksandr nods grimly.

"Yes," he says. "The Ottomans have been amassing their army for months. They're determined to crush your rebellion and make an example of your people." Skanderbeg scowls, his eyes narrowing as he turns over his options in his mind. Obviously, the odds are stacked heavily against them. He turns his gaze back on Oleksandr, studying his somber expression.

"How did you learn of this?" He asks, his voice sharp. "How do you know about the size of their army, and their plans?"

"I saw them with my own eyes as I left Hungary. I got the information by capturing some stray soldiers."

"Who leads this army? Do you know who the Ottomans have chosen to lead such a large force?"

“Ishak Bey, and your traitor nephew... Hamza Kastrioti.” He clenches his fist, his face darkening at the mention of his nephew's name.

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"Damn them," he mutters. "They send my own blood against me..."

"You knew this was coming, Iskander. You need to act fast."

"I did know it was coming, but I had hoped we would have a little more time." He admits, his voice heavy. "But you're right. We need to act fast. The Ottomans move like an avalanche - the longer we wait, the harder they'll be to stop."

As the night drags on, the men of the court - including Skanderbeg and Oleksandr - debate and discuss how to proceed. They talk of sending for aid from the Pope, and one of the scribes is dispatched to write a letter. Skanderbeg ponders the situation, his mind ticking furiously. As the discussion continues, someone points out the fact that many of the nobles have deserted and may have leaked information to the Ottoman commanders, including Hamza. This could potentially pose a significant problem, given Hamza's knowledge of Skanderbeg's strategies.

"Devise a strategy you've never used before." Oleksandr comments, leaned against a wall, puffing his pipe. Skanderbeg's eyes cut to Oleksandr, and he looks at him for a long moment. Then he nods slowly.

"You're right," he says. "If Hamza knows our usual strategies, we need something new. Something they won't expect." He falls silent, his mind working quickly as he considers options. The other men in the room are quiet too, waiting to see what Skanderbeg will come up with. Over the next couple of weeks, Skanderbeg and his advisors scramble to assemble an army of ten-thousand men. It's a tremendous effort, but thanks to a careful and discreet recruitment process, they manage to muster a significant enough force to face off against the Ottoman army.

As for Skanderbeg's strategy, he divides his army into several groups and orders them to march in separate directions through the mountains and remain unseen by the Ottoman forces until he gives the signal to reassemble. It's risky, and it requires great discipline from the men, but it's also a brilliant move. Skanderbeg chooses to go along with one of the groups, disappearing from sight for the time being. Meanwhile, Oleksandr does his part by scouting and watching the Ottomans from a distance, gathering all the intel he can. As Oleksandr watches the Ottoman army, he can see that they are growing less certain about Skanderbeg's whereabouts. They begin to wonder if he has fled due to a loss of hope, but Oleksandr knows better. He knows that the people have remained loyal and haven't betrayed Skanderbeg's location.

The Albanian warriors, resolute and determined, are well-supplied as they march through the mountains towards Kruje. They rely on the locals for supplies, with depots set up throughout the mountains to keep them well-fed and equipped. Oleksandr reports back to Skanderbeg, letting him know that the Ottomans have set up an encampment in a valley north of Kruje, their army waiting in the area for his appearance. He notes that they are clearly prepared to deal with any resistance. However, he also notes that the eastern side of the valley is lightly defended, leaving an opening for a potential surprise attack. He shares this with Skanderbeg, giving him crucial information that could be the key to victory. Over the course of July and August, Skanderbeg and his army remained hidden in the mountains, crafting their plans and letting the Ottomans grow weary and restless. When the time was right, and the Ottomans began to withdraw, confident in their victory, Skanderbeg gave the signal.

The army, which had thus far remained in separate groups, began to assemble without being seen by the Ottoman forces. They amassed on the hills surrounding the encampment, taking up positions and preparing for the upcoming battle. Skanderbeg and Oleksandr climb to the top of a high peak, giving them a commanding view of the Ottoman camp below. From their vantage point, they can see the Ottoman army, their tents and supplies laid out haphazardly in the valley below. From where they stand, the Ottoman army appears to be resting, their tents and supplies spread out in a disheveled fashion. The soldiers are visible, sitting, talking, and resting, their guard down. Skanderbeg and his chosen band, including Oleksandr, move down from their perch and begin to approach the Ottoman camp. Their steps are quiet and stealthy, as they make their way towards the group of guards that are stationed close to the perimeter of the camp.

Oleksandr moves like a ghost through the darkness, holding his dagger between his teeth, his footsteps silent on the soft earth. As he approaches the first guard, he quickly and silently dispatches the man, using his assassin skills honed from years of practice and his Varangian training. He repeats the process, moving quickly and silently from one guard to the next, taking each out with a swift and deadly precision. They fall, one by one, without ever seeing their reaper. As Oleksandr continues to silently take out the Ottoman guards, Skanderbeg gives his men the signal to get ready for battle. They know that in order to maintain the element of surprise, they need to be prepared for when the fighting begins. Men begin to quietly pull on armor, sharpen their blades, and prepare their weapons and supplies, keeping as quiet as possible to avoid being noticed. They mount their horses, and with a battle cry, they spill down the mountain.

The clash of steel and the rhythmic clattering of metallic tools filled the air as the Albanians charged into the heart of the Turkish camp. The sound was deafening, a calculated cacophony designed to disorient and terrify. The Ottomans, roused from their tents by the sudden onslaught, were thrown into disarray. Despite their overwhelming numbers, fear took hold as they faced the fury of the Albanian assault, believing they were being overrun by a much larger force.

Oleksandr was in the thick of it, his blade carving a path through the chaos. He saw Hamza desperately trying to rally his men, his voice lost in the din as he attempted to convince them that the Albanians were few. But the tide was against them. As Isak Bey moved to send reinforcements, a new wave of Albanian soldiers stormed into the fray, forcing him to redirect his efforts. Cavalry charges and counter-charges rippled across the battlefield, while arrows and arquebus fire rained down, driving the Ottomans deeper into their camp.

The battlefield became a whirlpool of violence, the Ottoman lines collapsing under the relentless pressure. Panic spread like wildfire among the Turkish ranks as they realized they were surrounded. The once-formidable army began to break, men throwing down their weapons in desperate attempts to flee. Oleksandr caught Hamza, dragging him from his horse, while Isak Bey, realizing the battle was lost, turned his horse and fled into the mountains. The camp was left in ruins, its treasures and standards seized by the victorious Albanians. The bodies of thousands of Ottomans littered the ground, their dead numbering in the tens of thousands, while the survivors were either taken as prisoners or executed. Skanderbeg surveys the wreckage around him, taking in the magnitude of the victory. He watches as his army begins to tend to the wounded and gather the spoils, his eyes scanning the battlefield in the aftermath of the intense fighting. Oleksandr approaches with Hamza.

"What's to be done with the traitor?" Skanderbeg looks at the bound and blindfolded Hamza, his eyes narrowing in anger. He turns to Oleksandr, his voice stern.

"We will deal with the traitor in due course," he says, his voice hard and cold. "But first, we have to tend to the wounded and gather the spoils. Make sure he’s well guarded and kept under close watch."