The hearth's flames flickered uneasily across the stone walls, as though they, too, dreaded revealing secrets. A faint draft slipped through the narrow window, stirring the heavy drapes in Constantine's private chambers. He stood rigid at the sill, gazing into the moonlit courtyard where shadows converged. The rustle of parchment and the lingering scent of pine smoke did little to quell the tightness in his chest.
He spoke quietly, his voice as taut as a drawn bowstring.
"The silence weighs on me more than their betrayal," he said. "We've no word from our agents, Theophilus—no dispatch, not even a rumor. It's been too long."
Theophilus, seated at an oaken table scattered with half-finished maps and sealed letters, laced his fingers together. "It is troubling, my Despot," he conceded. "Yet silence does not always mean failure. They may be cautious. It has only been a few weeks, my Despot."
"Or they're gone," Constantine countered. He turned, the moonlight outlining the tension in his features. "Petros and Maria... I let them breach every defense because I trusted them. And now they mock me from the shadows. They made a spectacle of me at court, Theophilus. You know how swiftly word travels when a ruler is humiliated."
Theophilus studied him, carefully weighing his words. "Do not let paranoia take hold, my Despot. It can be a deadlier poison than any laced in a cup," he cautioned. "The court and the people hold you in high regard—not only for your astonishing victory against the Ottomans but also for the immense wealth flowing into the region from the book sales. Your success has reshaped the Morea's fortunes, making you both admired and envied. But fear and suspicion, if left unchecked, can erode even the strongest foundations. A single moment of rashness could see you walking blindly into a snare."
Constantine clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain outwardly calm. Inside, unease gnawed at him. He paced once along the table, trailing a hand over scattered documents, as though their inked lines might answer the questions tormenting him. He thought of Maria—her earnest smile, the trust he had once shared with her. Then, Petro's smooth voice, his half-truths, and how easily they had turned Constantine's confidence into a weapon.
He paused, exhaling. "We need more eyes. I won't be outmaneuvered again. Increase our internal watch—quietly."
Theophilus nodded but did not immediately move. Instead, he held Constantine's gaze. "It will be done, my Despot. We should consider fortifying our circle. Our family in Serbia—our Dragaš kin—could provide men whose loyalty is written in blood, not gold."
Constantine inhaled slowly, weighing the thought. His mother's family did hold influence, a legacy untainted by self-serving ambition. "Send the word," he decided at last. "Handpick only those we can trust implicitly."
A moment of silence settled between them. Constantine glanced at the scattered reports, but his thoughts were far away—on Petros, on Maria, on how he, with all his supposed caution, had been caught unprepared by their treachery.
Theophilus spoke in a softer tone. "Trust is a rare currency, my lord. But if you let betrayal color your every choice, you risk ruling through fear alone. And men who rule by fear find themselves in a kingdom of ghosts."
For a moment, Constantine said nothing, his gaze fixed on the flickering shadows. Then, he drew himself upright, recalling the authority he carried.
"There's more than one way to lead, Theophilus," he said, voice low but steady. "Fear alone won't do. But neither will ignorance. Prepare everything. I won't let this betrayal shape my rule—or my end."
He caught the distant sound of footsteps in the corridor. Theophilus stood to carry out his orders, and Constantine let the whispers of night deepen as if the darkness itself were listening.
Glarentza, Early October 1432
The scent of damp earth and sea salt hung in the air as the autumn wind swept through Glarentza's ever-growing barracks and factories. The sun was dipping, casting long shadows over the assembled soldiers and quartermasters tending to weapons and supplies. The rhythmic clang of a hammer striking iron echoed from the nearby forge, a testament to the expanding industry within Constantine's domain.
Francesco Sforza arrived at the camp with the ease of a man accustomed to war. His mercenaries rode in behind him, their armor still bearing the dents and scratches of the last campaign. The camp bustled with activity—blacksmiths hammering away at fresh weapons, quartermasters overseeing supply lines, and soldiers drilling under the dimming sky.
Sforza dismounted, passing a few knowing glances to his men before making his way toward Constantine's military office. The two had spoken briefly upon his arrival, and Sforza had, as expected, reiterated his admiration for the cannons and muskets. But now, away from the eyes of the men, he could speak more freely.
Inside the office, where sketches and reports lay scattered across a sturdy wooden table, Sforza leaned against a post, arms crossed. A smirk played on his lips as he regarded Constantine.
"Not gonna lie, my friend," he said, his voice carrying the easy confidence of a seasoned commander. "I have fought many battles, but the way your cannons tore through the enemy lines at the Hexamilion—the way the Pyrvelos musketeers worked in perfect rhythm with the pike formations—it was something else entirely. You have reshaped the battlefield before my eyes."
Constantine met his gaze evenly, clasping Sforza's forearm in greeting. "You've said as much before, and still, you give all the credit to the weapons." He let a faint, knowing smile touch his lips. "But wars are not won by steel and powder alone. It takes discipline, coordination, and men who move as one. Weapons are tools, nothing more. It is the mind that wields them that decides the outcome."
Sforza chuckled, shaking his head. "That much is true, but even discipline needs steel and powder to back it. Your combined-arms tactics—the way your pike infantry held firm while the Pyrvelos and cannons shattered the enemy's lines—this is the future of war." He folded his arms, tilting his head in curiosity. "I must know, Constantine, what inspired such brilliance? I have studied the campaigns of Caesar and the sieges of Alexander, yet I have seen nothing like what you have brought to the field."
Constantine allowed himself a small, knowing smile. "The ancient generals left us much to learn. The Romans perfected discipline, the Greeks mastered the phalanx, and Hannibal showed how to break superior forces through maneuver and deception. I have merely taken lessons from the past and applied them to the weapons of the present."
Sforza gave a low whistle. "A prudent answer, my friend. And one that makes me all the more eager to see what you do next." His expression turned more serious as he gestured toward the bustling arsenal behind them.
Sforza exhaled, rubbing his jaw as he glanced toward the forge fires. "Which brings me to my purpose here. My contract is soon to expire, and while I have many choices before me, one thing is clear—I need weapons. You remember our last talk, Constantine?" he said, his tone measured. "Before the campaign, I told you I wanted to buy your Pyrvelos muskets and those field cannons that shattered the enemy lines at the Hexamilion. You told me to wait. Well, I have waited. The campaign is over, and I am here to ask again."
Constantine regarded him steadily, the flickering torchlight casting sharp shadows across his face. He had expected this moment. Sforza was a man who understood the shifting nature of war, a commander who saw where the future was heading and wanted to be at its forefront. That made him both a valuable ally and a potential risk.
"I haven't forgotten," Constantine said, his voice calm but firm. "And I understand why you want them. The battlefield is changing, and you are wise enough to recognize it. But my position hasn't changed, either. My forges are expanding, and my army needs every weapon I can produce. Murad will not stay idle for long. I cannot afford to weaken my forces, even for an ally."
Sforza tilted his head, studying him. "So, you still refuse to sell?"
"I said nothing of the sort," Constantine countered smoothly. "I will honor our discussion. You will have your weapons, but you'll have to wait until the next production cycle. My men come first, Sforza. You understand that better than most."
Sforza let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. "You drive a hard bargain, Despot. But I can hardly fault you for it." His smirk returned, though there was a glint of something more guarded in his eyes. "Very well, then. We have a deal."
They clasped forearms, sealing the agreement, but even as their grip tightened, an unspoken understanding passed between them. Sforza had gotten what he wanted—partially—but the game was far from over.
As Sforza rode out with his men, his silhouette fading into the dimming horizon, Constantine remained standing in the office, arms folded behind his back. The wind carried the distant sounds of the forge, where blacksmiths toiled to produce the very weapons that had drawn the mercenary's admiration—and his desire.
This was only the beginning. Today, Sforza was an ally, eager to adopt the tactics and weaponry that had reshaped the battlefield. But alliances, like fortunes in war, were ever-changing. One day, those same weapons might be turned against him. That was the nature of progress—no innovation remained a secret forever. The Pyrvelos muskets, the field cannons, the combined-arms tactics—eventually, they would be copied, refined, and used by those with the ambition to wield them.
Yet control was power. By dictating who received these weapons and when, Constantine could ensure that, even as their reach expanded, they did so on his terms, at least part. The Ottomans, the Venetians, and even men like Sforza would seek to unlock their secrets. War was never about who had the best weapons—it was about who dictated their use.
Clermont Castle, Council Chamber
The council chamber was alive with the murmur of discussion as advisors settled into their seats, parchment rustling and the faint scent of ink lingering in the air. Candles flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows over the assembled men. At the head of the chamber, Constantine sat with an air of quiet authority, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the polished wood of the table.
Theophilus cleared his throat, bringing the room to order. "My Despot, I have received updated reports regarding the Duke of Burgundy and the book trade. Sales continue to surge, particularly in Burgundy, the Papal States, and Florence. The demand for our texts has outpaced even our most ambitious projections."
A satisfied murmur spread through the chamber. Constantine allowed himself a small smile. The printing press had already proven its worth, but now it was fueling an economic revival unlike anything the Empire had seen in centuries.
"There is more," Theophilus continued. "The Duke of Burgundy's new wife is Portuguese. This presents an unexpected opportunity. Through her, we may establish a diplomatic connection with Lisbon—one that could be useful for securing shipbuilders, as you had inquired about before."
Constantine's eyes narrowed slightly. "Excellent news," he said, leaning forward. "I want letters sent to Burgundy immediately. Frame it as an expansion of our book trade and economic cooperation, but make sure there's room to explore further diplomatic ties. Do it carefully—I don't want the Venetians catching wind of our intentions just yet."
Theophilus nodded. "I will handle it personally."
Satisfied, Constantine turned to the following matter. "With our treasury brimming, the time has come to assert our independence economically. I will establish a new mint here in Glarentza, forging our own coin—stamped with the Palaiologos eagle, a declaration to the world that Byzantium will no longer trade under the mark of foreign powers."
A brief silence followed. Then Plethon, seated to Constantine's right, spoke with measured caution. "A bold move, my Despot. But the Emperor may not look kindly upon such a decision. The Venetians, the Genoese, and even the Ottomans dominate the coinage of trade. If we challenge that—"
Constantine raised a hand, silencing him with measured authority. "We are the heirs of Byzantium, yet we trade in the currency of foreigners like vassals. That must end. The Morea stands strong, and it is time we reclaim our economic identity. We will mint our own coinage—true Byzantine currency once more. Constantinople is in no position to object; they also surrendered their economy to Venetian ducats long ago."
Plethon considered the weight of the decision, his expression pensive before he gave a slow, approving nod. "Control of the mint is control of our destiny. With it, we dictate the flow of commerce, set the terms of trade, and reinforce our sovereignty."
"Precisely," Constantine affirmed. "Begin preparations immediately—I will oversee the process myself."
After an in-depth discussion of economic matters, the council shifted its focus to military affairs.
"The Hexamilion," Constantine began, his tone sharpening, "is our strongest line of defense against Ottoman incursions. Yet, for all its strength, it remains vulnerable without a dedicated garrison. It is time we finalize our plans and establish a permanent military presence there—one that ensures the wall is not merely a barrier but a fortress that will stand against any invasion."
There were nods of agreement, but also hesitation. Theophilus spoke first. "A stronghold at the wall will require resources—soldiers, provisions, infrastructure. Without a permanent supply chain, it will be difficult to sustain over the long term."
"We will allocate funds for a new weapons arsenal at the Hexamilion itself," Constantine countered. "It will serve as a production site for additional cannons and muskets. The operation we have now is insufficient. We must scale it up."
Plethon, ever the pragmatic voice, leaned forward. "And who will oversee this expansion? We need craftsmen, laborers, blacksmiths—men willing to uproot their lives for this project."
"Which is why Corinth must be transformed into a military-industrial center," Constantine replied. "The city will house expanded barracks and forges, supplying both the Hexamilion and our broader war effort. This is not merely about fortifications—it is about ensuring our survival."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber. The idea was ambitious, but it was also necessary.
"The sooner we begin, the better," Constantine said. "I want reports on supply chains, fortification materials, and recruitment strategies within the week. We cannot afford delays."
Theophilus nodded. "I will ensure that merchants and craftsmen receive incentives to relocate. Gold will always be a strong motivator."
Later that Evening, in Constantine's Private Chambers
Theophilus lingered after the council meeting, his keen eyes studying Constantine as the others departed. Once they were alone, he spoke.
"You requested I find Portuguese shipbuilders, rather than Venetians," he said. "That struck me as... curious. The Venetians are masters of shipcraft. Why seek the Portuguese instead?"
Constantine leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "I have heard rumors," he said carefully, choosing his words. "Whispers that the Portuguese are developing new types of vessels—ones more maneuverable, better suited for long voyages. If these rumors are true, we would be wise to learn from them before our rivals do."
Theophilus frowned slightly. "You trust these rumors?"
"I trust that innovation often comes from unexpected places," Constantine replied. "Venice has ruled the seas for too long. But dominance is never eternal. If another power is rising, I want to know before they do."
Theophilus studied him for a long moment before nodding. "I will make inquiries."
"Good," Constantine said. "The future of Morea depends not only on land but on the sea. If we control both, we control our own destiny."
As Theophilus left, Constantine turned to the map spread across his desk. His gaze settled on the western waters, where Portugal's influence was only beginning to stretch.
In another world, another time, the Portuguese would forge an empire on the seas, their caravels carrying them to lands unknown.
But this was a different timeline.
And Constantine intended to shape it his way.