《EMPIRE REWRITTEN - A Kingdom building/Self insert novel.》


 Chapter One: Awakening

    A sharp, piercing noise shattered the quiet void of my mind, yanking me from the depths of sleep. Pain throbbed behind my eyes¡ªdull yet persistent¡ªas if someone had driven nails into my skull. I groaned, instinctively squeezing my eyes shut, hoping to push the ache away. Something was wrong. Very wrong.


    The dense, cold, alien air brushed against my skin, sending a shiver crawling up my spine. Where was the gentle hum of the air conditioner? The familiar scent of last night''s chamomile tea? My bed felt too firm, and the sheets were coarse, scratching my skin like sandpaper. Slowly, cautiously, I opened my eyes.


    What greeted me was utterly foreign. Above, dark wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, polished and gleaming¡ªnot the smooth plaster of my bedroom. Stone walls loomed around me, the kind you''d expect to find in a medieval fortress. Panic surged in my chest as I pushed myself up, my muscles protesting in a way that felt off, wrong, foreign. I looked down at the hands in my lap.


    These weren''t my hands.


    I remembered my hands¡ªslightly wrinkled, the skin soft from years spent turning pages rather than wielding weapons. There was a small scar on my left index finger from when Jason and I had tried to build a treehouse. We''d laughed so hard when the plank slipped, and I''d nicked myself with the saw. The memory brought a pang of longing. What would my sons, Jason and Nick, think if they saw me now?


    My heart raced as I stared at my chest, flat and muscled instead of comfortably padded like I was used to. My breath quickened, short and ragged. Swinging my legs over the bed, I nearly tripped over the edge of a heavy rug that covered the cold, stone floor.


    A voice behind me, soft and gentle, pierced the panic. "Does something trouble you, my Despot?"


    I froze, the word echoing in my mind. Despot. The term was in Greek¡ªa language I knew bits of thanks to my Yaya. But this was different; I understood it perfectly, as if I had spoken it my entire life. The word floated at the edges of my memory, yet it felt wrong. Not my title. Not my life. I swallowed hard, turning slowly toward the voice.


    A woman lay there, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her features soft, though her eyes held concern as she studied me. She knew me. But I didn''t know her.


    I stared at her, my chest tightening. Who was she? More importantly¡ªwho was I?


    Suddenly, memories flooded my mind¡ªmemories that didn''t belong to me¡ªstern, battle-hardened faces under crested helmets, battlefields drenched in blood, the thunderous clash of swords and shields, and Ottoman banners, black and gold, flapping in the wind.


    The sensation was suffocating, like I was drowning in a sea of memories that weren''t mine but somehow felt like they had always been there, waiting for me to remember them.


    "No..." I muttered under my breath, gripping my head, my fingers digging into my scalp. "This can''t be real."


    I forced myself to look down at the hands again¡ªyouthful, scarred, marked by a life of battle. But whose life? Certainly not mine. The room spun, and I sank onto a nearby stool, the cold stone wall pressing against my back as I buried my face in my hands. Was this a dream? No, it felt too real. The smoky scent of burning wood, the chilly draft cutting through the room¡ªeverything was too vivid, too alive.


    Who am I?


    I tried to speak, to demand answers from the woman in the bed, but my voice faltered. When the words finally came, they were deep and resonant¡ªa voice I did not recognize.


    "I... I''m fine," I stammered, the unfamiliar voice grating against my ears.


    Her face softened, relief washing over her as she leaned back into the bed. Her concern melted into sleepy reassurance. "You''ve been restless in your sleep," she said, her voice gentle and soothing.


    Restless. That was an understatement. My mind was spinning, fragments of memories pushing their way to the surface, each more alarming than the last. Constantinople, its towering walls looming large against the horizon. Endless councils with generals, their faces etched with exhaustion. The weight of responsibility¡ªboth in metal and in spirit¡ªis pressing down on me. The weight of a crown. But not just any crown.


    Constantine.


    The realization struck like a lightning bolt, cold and fierce, leaving me breathless. Constantine Palaiologos. The last emperor of Byzantium. How could that be? I wasn''t him¡ªI was Michael Jameston. A fifty-five-year-old American. I sold books, for God''s sake.


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    But as I examined my hands¡ªhis hands¡ªscarred and hardened from battle, the truth dug its claws into me. This body wasn''t mine, yet somehow, it was. I was Constantine. Somehow, I was.


    I rose shakily from the stool, gripping the wall for support, feeling the cold stone bite into my skin. Panic clawed at my throat, but I forced myself to breathe¡ªin and out, slow and steady. I needed to think.


    How? Why?


    Constantine''s memories, life, and struggles were pouring into me, overwhelming my sense of self. The more I resisted, the stronger the memories became. The Morea. The title she had used¡ª*Despot*. My breath hitched. This was real. I was here, in his body, in his world.


    I closed my eyes, hoping the darkness would provide some escape, some reprieve, but it only sharpened the flood of memories. I had stood in the halls of Constantinople, spoken with Emperor John VIII, and fought on the front lines of an empire on the brink of collapse.


    I was Constantine Palaiologos.


    The realization hit me like a blow to the chest, and I gasped for air, my hands trembling as I gripped the rough stone wall.


    I couldn''t be. Yet... I was.


    The woman¡ªTheodora, his wife¡ªwatched me with concern and confusion. She rose from the bed, her gown whispering against the floor as she approached. "Are you certain you''re well?" she asked softly.


    I forced myself to meet her gaze, seeing the genuine worry etched in her eyes. "I''m just... overwhelmed," I managed to say, the words foreign yet somehow fitting.


    She offered a gentle smile. "You''ve taken on so much lately. The responsibilities here in the Morea, the matters with your brothers. It''s no wonder you''re feeling the weight of it all."


    I nodded slowly, seizing on her words. "Yes, that''s it. Just... the weight of everything."


    Her hand rested lightly on my arm, a comforting gesture that only deepened the surreal nature of the moment. "Perhaps some fresh air would help clear your mind," she suggested. "Or a ride through the countryside?"


    "Maybe later," I replied, attempting a reassuring smile. "I think I just need a moment."


    She squeezed my arm gently before stepping back. "Of course. I''ll have breakfast sent up for us."


    As she approached the door, I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Once she was gone, I allowed myself to sink back onto the stool, running a hand through my hair.


    I needed to understand what was happening. Was this some kind of vivid hallucination, a dream, or had I truly been transported into Constantine Palaiologos''s body?


    I tried to recall the last thing I remembered as Michael Jameston. Closing up the bookstore late at night, the scent of paper and ink lingering in the air. The sound of rain tapping against the windows. I had felt a sharp pain¡ªa headache unlike any I''d experienced before¡ªand then... darkness.


    And now, I was here.


    I stood and moved toward the window, pushing aside the heavy drapes. The view that greeted me stole the breath from my lungs. Rolling hills stretched toward the horizon, dotted with olive groves and vineyards. In the distance, the sun cast a golden glow over the rugged mountains. It was breathtaking¡ªand entirely unlike anything I''d ever seen.


    This was real.


    I reached up to touch my face, feeling the stubble of a beard along my jaw. Turning, I caught sight of a polished metal mirror resting on a nearby table. Hesitant, I approached it.


    The face that stared back was not my own. Dark hair framed a strong, angular face, with piercing eyes that held a depth I didn''t recognize. A face young but hardened by years of responsibility and conflict.


    I was Constantine.


    A mix of fear and awe coursed through me. If this was real¡ªif I indeed was in his body¡ªthen what did that mean? For me? For history?


    I knew what was coming. The fall of Constantinople. The end of the Byzantine Empire. And here I was, inhabiting the body of the man who would be its last emperor.


    Could I change it? Was I meant to?


    A knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts. "Enter," I called out, the deep timbre of my voice still unsettling.


    A young servant stepped inside, carrying a tray with bread, cheese, and fruit. "Your breakfast, Despot," he said with a bow.


    "Thank you," I replied, watching as he set the tray on the table. As he turned to leave, I stopped him. "Wait."


    He paused, glancing up at me with a mix of curiosity and caution.


    "What is your name?" I asked.


    "Alexios, Despot."


    "How long have you served here, Alexios?"


    "All my life, Despot. My father was a steward before me."


    I nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, Alexios. That will be all."


    He bowed again before quietly exiting the room.


    I sank into a chair by the table, staring at the simple meal before me. My mind raced with possibilities, questions, and fears. If I had this knowledge¡ªif I knew what was to come¡ªcould I use it to change the course of history? To save the empire? Or would my interference only make things worse?


    But another fear was gnawing at the edges of my thoughts: Could I ever go back? Was this some kind of nightmare I would wake from, or had I been pulled permanently into this world? Am I trapped here? The uncertainty clawed at me, making it hard to breathe.


    Author''s Note: In early 1428, Byzantine Emperor John VIII Palaiologos launched a campaign against Glarentza. During the Battle of the Echinades, the Byzantine fleet successfully defeated Count Tocco¡¯s forces, ending his influence in the Morea. This victory led to a negotiated settlement where John VIII''s brother, Constantine Palaiologos, married Carlo Tocco''s niece. As part of her dowry, Constantine received Glarentza and other Tocco-held territories in the Morea. At this time, Constantine''s brother Theodore Palaiologos controlled Messinia, Laconia, and parts of Arcadia, while their younger brother Thomas ruled over the region of Kalavryta in the northern Morea. Together, they managed the defense and administration of these key territories.

 Chapter Two: The Weight of Two Worlds

    Theodora slept soundly beside him, her breath slow and even, a gentle rhythm against the chaos in Michael¡¯s mind. The rise and fall of her chest, the soft murmur as she shifted in her sleep¡ªeach minor detail was a reminder that she was part of this world, Constantine¡¯s world. A world that, for two long, torturous days, he had been trapped in.


    Michael perched on the bed''s edge, shadows cloaking the chamber. The silence pressed in, broken only by the distant tolling of a bell. Two days had passed since he''d awoken in this alien body, two days of wrestling with a reality that defied explanation. He could no longer hide.


    Rising abruptly, he crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. The cold night air hit his face, sharp and invigorating. Below, the castle grounds stretched out, torches flickering along the walls. He needed to step into this world to confront whatever awaited.


    He exhaled, the breath heavy, weary. I can¡¯t keep pretending. He knew that much. But what was he supposed to do? Hiding here, in this stone chamber, wasn¡¯t solving anything. And yet stepping into Constantine¡¯s life¡ª**his life now**¡ªfelt like a prison. Every hour that passed was like the walls of that prison closing in tighter, suffocating him.


    Slowly, careful not to wake Theodora, Michael rose from the bed and moved toward the narrow window. The cold stone floor chilled his feet, but he welcomed the sensation¡ªit was something real, something he could feel. As he gazed out at the dark hills of the Morea, the distant flickers of firelight from the villages below did little to comfort him. This world, this **foreign** world, was now his reality.


    He gripped the window ledge, his fingers tracing the rough stone, his hands calloused and scarred¡ª Constantine¡¯s hands. They were strong, capable hands of a warrior. Michael stared down at them, still unable to reconcile the sight. How long can I keep this up? How long before someone saw through the mask and realized that the man they thought was their leader was an imposter, a fraud?


    His thoughts drifted, unwillingly, to the family he had left behind. What happened to my body? Was he lying unconscious in a hospital, his ex-wife Ellen and his two sons, Jason and Nick, at his bedside? Or had he simply vanished from their world, leaving them to wonder if he had abandoned them completely? The thought cut deep. Would they even notice I¡¯m gone?


    Jason was always the ambitious one, diving headfirst into college and barely looking back. The last time we''d spoken, he''d been rushing off the phone, promising to visit "when things settled down." On the other hand, Nick was my quiet shadow, content with a good book and a cup of cocoa. We''d spend hours in comfortable silence, each lost in our own worlds yet together. Had I taken those moments for granted? A lump formed in my throat at the thought that I might never see them again.


    He clenched his fists, frustration rising in his chest. There might not be a ¡®later¡¯ anymore. He had taken his time for granted, assuming there would be endless tomorrows to make things right. Now, those tomorrows felt as distant as the 21st century itself. Would his sons even realize how much he had cared? Or had they already written him off, just as Ellen had?


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    Ellen''s laughter echoed faintly in my memory¡ªthe way she''d tilt her head back, eyes sparkling. We hadn''t shared a laugh like that in years. Our last conversation had been strained, filled with awkward pauses and half-hearted promises to "catch up soon."


    Ellen. His ex-wife. She was busy with her career and with her life. He knew she wouldn¡¯t miss him immediately¡ª weeks could pass before she even realized he was gone. And when she does? The thought stung, but there was no escaping it. His life, the life he had worked so hard to rebuild after the divorce, was slipping away from him, just like everything else.


    He sighed, leaning his forehead against the cold stone wall. What does any of it matter now? The 21st century was out of reach. His family, his old life¡ªthey were gone. And yet, they still haunted him no matter how far away they felt. How could he focus on this strange, medieval world when all he could think about were the people he had left behind?


    Theodora stirred behind him, her soft voice mumbling something unintelligible in her sleep. She had been nothing but kind these last two days, offering him gentle words and space to recover from his supposed illness. But Michael couldn¡¯t bring himself to meet her kindness with anything but distance. This woman¡ªConstantine¡¯s wife¡ªlooked at him with trust, with the comfort of a partner. And yet, he was a stranger. How long before she sensed it? Before the mask he wore slipped, and she realized the truth?


    His mind wandered to his grandmother, the woman who had filled his childhood with tales of Byzantium, Constantinople, and the great emperors who had once ruled these lands. If she could see me now... But the thought wasn¡¯t as triumphant as he had once imagined it would be. Standing here, in the shadow of an empire on the brink of collapse, Michael felt nothing but the crushing weight of inevitability. His grandmother¡¯s stories had been full of glory and heroism. But this¡ªthis was suffocating.


    He knew what was coming. The Ottomans. The fall of Constantinople. And here he was, in the thick of it. How can I stop it?


    Michael gripped the windowsill tighter, the cold stone biting into his skin. Constantine¡¯s memories, his life, pressed in on him from all sides, drowning out his own thoughts. His hands, his muscles¡ªeverything felt different, as if Constantine was seeping into him, erasing who he had been. I¡¯m still Michael Jameston, he told himself, but it felt less true with each passing moment. Each time someone called him "Despot," each time he looked into the mirror, that identity slipped further away.


    Twenty-five years. He had twenty-five years before the final blow fell, before Constantinople crumbled. But what could he do in that time? He wasn¡¯t a leader. He wasn¡¯t a strategist. He was a man from the future, armed with knowledge but no idea how to wield it. What if I can¡¯t change anything?


    The thought terrified him. What if he failed? What if this empire, this world, was destined to fall no matter what he did? His hands trembled as he pulled them away from the window, staring at them as if they didn¡¯t belong to him.


    The weight of Constantine¡¯s life was overwhelming. I¡¯m not Constantine. But here, in this world, he had no choice but to be. Could he become that man? Could he save the empire?


    He leaned heavily against the wall, trying to still the rising panic. Michael¡¯s life¡ªhis family, job, modern comforts¡ªwas gone. But he still had something. He had knowledge. He could use that. He had to use it.


    But even as he thought it, the doubt gnawed at him. Was he capable of changing history? Could one man¡ª one man out of time¡ªreally save an empire?


    He shook his head, unable to focus. His thoughts were a jumble, the weight of two worlds pressing down on him. Tomorrow, he would have to leave this room. He couldn¡¯t hide forever. He would need to start... something. But tonight, just for a little longer, he allowed himself to mourn. To be Michael Jameston, a father, a man from a future he might never see again.

 Chapter Three: The Weight of Expectations

    It was the third day since I woke up in this body, and today, I decided it was time to stop pretending.


    For two days, I had told Theodora and the court that I was too ill to leave my chambers, too weak to fulfill the duties of Despot. But the charade couldn¡¯t last forever. Today, I would finally step out of my isolation and face this new life to see what awaited me beyond these stone walls. I had no choice. The world would not wait.


    As I walked through the cold stone halls of Clermont Castle, the weight of expectation settled heavily on my shoulders. Servants tiptoed, bowing as I passed, their gazes averted in silent deference. I tried to move purposefully, to mimic the confidence of the man they thought I was. But everything felt wrong¡ªthe heavy Byzantine robes clung to my skin, the layered fabric stiff and unfamiliar. Even the air in these halls felt thick with history and duty, and I was a stranger walking in someone else¡¯s life.


    I pause, my hand resting on the cold, unyielding stone wall. The rough texture under my fingertips tugs at a memory, pulling me away from the stone corridors of Clermont and back to a sunlit kitchen thousands of miles and hundreds of years away.


    Yaya¡¯s voice rises in my mind, clear as day. She¡¯s at the stove, stirring a pot of thick, fragrant lentil soup, her hands moving with a confidence born from decades. "Do you know, Michael," she says, looking over at me with that familiar twinkle in her eye, "the great emperors of Byzantium weren¡¯t all just men in armor. Some were wise and clever beyond belief."


    I remember nodding, watching her as the bright midday light streams through the window, glinting off the brass pot on the stove. She used to tell me stories of Constantine the Great, Basil the Bulgar-Slayer, and Empress Irene. Every tale ends the same way: ¡°They loved their people, you see. Loved them as a mother loves her child. Never forget that.¡±


    And now, somehow, I¡¯m in the body of one of those figures, living in the very world she described.


    Then Constantine''s memories surged within me, vivid scenes of battlefields and council chambers flashing like lightning strikes. The weight of his past pressed against my mind, but the finer threads¡ªthose everyday nuances¡ªremained frustratingly out of reach.


    Servants and courtiers paused as I passed through the grand corridor, their whispers hushed but perceptible. Their gazes followed me, expectant and probing. A pair of guards snapped to attention, their armor clinking softly. I straightened my posture, forcing a confident stride. If I couldn''t be Constantine, I would at least appear to be.


    I turned a corner and came face to face with George Sphrantzes, Constantine¡¯s most trusted advisor. He bowed slightly, his sharp gaze never leaving my face, as though searching for something beneath the surface.


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    "Despot," he said, his tone smooth but testing. "I am heartened to see you in better spirits, truly. It was worrisome to see you so burdened." He paused, then continued with a hint of familiarity. "The lords of the region await your council in the coming days. This will be your first formal meeting with them, and there are matters that require your attention before we convene."


    The "first council". My heart raced. Constantine had only recently taken control of the region, so the lords and nobles here didn¡¯t know him¡ªdidn¡¯t know me. This would be their first real look at their new Despot, the man they expected to lead them. And I wasn¡¯t ready.


    "Yes, of course," I replied, fighting to keep my voice calm, though the knot in my stomach tightened. "What matters, exactly?"


    As soon as I asked, I felt that familiar fog creeping into my mind. I had his memories, but not all of them. Significant events, battles, decisions¡ªthose were clear, like vivid scenes from a life that wasn¡¯t mine. But the more minor details, the ones I needed now, remained frustratingly blurry. It was as if Constantine¡¯s mind was a puzzle, and I had only the corner pieces, leaving the rest incomplete. I knew enough to seem like him, but not enough to be him.


    George raised an eyebrow, though his expression remained unreadable. "The grain stores, the fortifications around Clermont, and the skirmishes along the borders of Morea with the Duchy of Athens," he recited, his tone formal, as if reminding me of matters I should already know. "You requested updates before the council convenes."


    Constantine had requested those updates, not me. I swallowed hard, trying not to let my uncertainty show. These memories and responsibilities belonged to him, not me. But I had to act as though they were mine.


    "I see," I said, forcing a nod. "Remind me of the... most pressing of these."


    George¡¯s gaze flickered momentarily, and I could sense a sliver of doubt in his eyes. "The fortifications, Despot," he replied carefully. "The defenses around Clermont are weak, and the local lords fear an Ottoman raid. We must decide whether to divert resources to reinforce the western walls or strengthen our watch along the Morea borders."


    I took a slow breath, trying to remain steady. I had access to the grand strokes of Constantine¡¯s memory, but the tactical decisions, the names, the intricate politics of this world¡ªthe gaps that made everything feel like it was slipping through my fingers. The Ottomans were a known threat¡ªone that would loom over this world for years to come¡ªbut my knowledge of how to address them now, at this moment, was clouded by Constantine¡¯s incomplete recollections.


    "We will... discuss it soon," I managed to say, hoping I sounded calm, though inside, I was reeling. "Ensure that everything is ready for the council."


    George bowed again, though there was something in his eyes¡ªa flicker of doubt or perhaps concern. He watched me closely, waiting for Constantine to reveal himself. But I wasn¡¯t Constantine.


    "As you command, Despot," he said, his voice steady, before turning and walking away down the corridor, leaving me standing alone with my thoughts.


    I exhaled, releasing a breath I hadn¡¯t realized I was holding. I had bought myself a little more time, but not much. The council was fast approaching, and soon, these lords would expect answers¡ªdecisive leadership. They didn¡¯t know me yet, but they would soon enough.


    And that terrified me. Because I didn¡¯t know if I could be the man they needed. I had Constantine¡¯s memories, yes. But they were fragmented, blurred in the places where I needed clarity the most. I was an outsider, trying to fill the shoes of a Despot.


    And I had no idea how long I could keep pretending.

 Chapter Four: Fragile World

    After George departed, the stone walls of Clermont Castle pressed in around me, the air thick with the scent of burning torches. My breaths grew shallow. I needed to escape.


    Moments later, I emerged into the courtyard, the sun casting long shadows. Two guards stepped behind me without a word, their chainmail rustling¡ªa constant, metallic reminder of my new reality.


    "Where to, Despot?" one guard asked.


    I glanced back at the looming castle walls. "Into the village," I said. " I wish to see it."


    We walked out, the path winding down toward the cluster of homes and shops that made up the village. As we approached, the sounds of daily life reached my ears¡ªthe murmur of voices, the clatter of a blacksmith''s hammer, the distant laughter of children. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, damp earth, and the faint odor of livestock. It was a far cry from the sanitized world I once knew, but this was reality now.


    As I walked down the dirt path, the guards keeping pace behind me, I couldn¡¯t help but feel the weight of every step. I was supposed to be their ruler, walking with purpose, with command. But inside, I felt like a stranger, but to them, I was the Despot, their protector.


    The quiet of this world unnerved me. There was no hum of machines, no rush of cars, only the creak of wooden carts and the occasional bleating of goats in the distance. Everything felt fragile. The village, the people ¡ªthis whole world seemed so delicate, as if one gust of wind could tear it all apart.


    I scanned the village, trying to take it all in. Children played in the dirt, their laughter rising above the murmurs of working men and women. A group of men patched a barn roof with straw, while women knelt by a cottage, washing clothes. The cottages were crooked, their walls streaked with mud and soot, looking as though they barely held together. **How did they survive this?** How was I supposed to help them when I didn¡¯t even know how to survive this world myself?


    As I neared the village square, I spotted an elderly woman by a stone well. Her hands moved carefully as she arranged a small collection of goods on a worn cloth ¡ªtwo wheels of cheese, a jar of honey, and a loaf of bread. She glanced up and saw me, her eyes widening.


    Immediately, she bowed deeply, her posture stiff and awkward, her eyes dropping to the ground. She didn¡¯t speak¡ªdidn¡¯t even look up again. Someone like her wouldn¡¯t dare address a ruler in this world first. The deference was clear, and for a moment, I hesitated. I¡¯m not used to this.


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    Steeling myself, I stepped forward and broke the silence. ¡°What do you have there?¡± I asked, my voice soft but steady.


    She started at my address, hastily bowing her head. "My Lord Despot, forgive me. I offer but humble fare¡ªa bit of cheese, some honey, and fresh-baked bread. This is modest but made with care."


    Her fear and awe cut into me. She wasn¡¯t afraid for her life, not exactly, but there was a deep respect, a reverence that I hadn¡¯t earned. That belonged to Constantine. I gestured to the bread. ¡°This looks well made. Did you bake it yourself?¡±


    She blinked, her face brightening just a little as pride crept into her voice. ¡°Aye, Despot. My daughter grinds the flour, and I do the baking. The rains came late this year, so the crops aren¡¯t what they used to be. But God willing, we manage.¡± Her wrinkled hands smoothed the cloth as she spoke, the motions as much habit as necessity.


    I nodded, though my stomach twisted in hunger. ¡°And do you sell this in the market?¡±


    Her expression faltered, and she shook her head slightly. ¡°Not as much as we used to, Despot. Folks here have little to spare these days. Some days, it¡¯s enough just to keep bread on the table.¡± She hesitated, glancing at the guards beside me. ¡°My son helps when he can, but he¡¯s away more often now. There¡¯s work in the nearby town, but it¡¯s hard. Hard for a mother to see her boy go.¡±


    I could hear the quiet desperation in her voice. It wasn¡¯t in what she said, but in her eyes¡ªthe way they darted back and forth and spoke of her son without directly asking for help. Life here was tough. Every day was a struggle, and yet they carried on. How was I supposed to help them? **How was I supposed to lead them when I couldn¡¯t even lead myself?**


    I glanced at the guards standing beside me, their hands resting lightly on the hilts of their swords. Protection. My protection. But I knew how thin that protection really was. Constantinople would fall in less than twenty- five years. The empire was already a shadow of its former self. And yet, these people¡ªthis woman¡ªtrusted me. They believed that Constantine could keep them safe.


    ¡°I assure you, we are doing everything we can,¡± I said, though the words felt heavy in my mouth. ¡°We will keep the village strong, and the harvest will improve.¡±


    The woman¡¯s face lit up with gratitude, her faith unwavering. ¡°Aye, Despot, we know you will.¡±


    Her words were like a weight pressing down on my chest. These people depended on me¡ªMichael Jameston, a middle-aged book salesman from another time who had no idea how to rule an empire. And yet, to them, I was Constantine Palaiologos, their protector. Their Despot.


    I nodded again, forcing a smile, but the burden felt too great. As we made our way back toward the castle, the village receding behind me, the weight of it all gnawed at my thoughts. Every face I had seen, every word spoken, reminded me of the responsibility I had inherited. These people trusted me to lead them.


    The guards followed silently behind me, but their presence deepened my isolation. The fragility of this world, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach¡ªa mix of pity and responsibility that settled like a stone.

 Chapter Five: The Weight of Leadership

    A few more days had passed since I woke in this strange, medieval world, still struggling to balance Constantine¡¯s fragmented memories with mine. Every day brought new insights but also new questions. Constantine''s life was slowly becoming more apparent, yet the gaps remained frustrating. Today, however, was different ¡ªthe day of my first meeting with the local lords and advisors. It was a test of leadership, and I couldn¡¯t shake the anxiety gnawing at me as I prepared to face them.


    I sat at a heavy wooden table in the sunlit dining chamber, a simple but hearty breakfast spread before me¡ªthe aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the earthy scent of olive oil and herbs. Across from me, Theodora sipped her herbal infusion, watching me with soft concern. Her presence was gentle, but her gaze told me she could sense my unrest.


    ¡°The honey is from our hives,¡± she said, attempting to ease me into conversation. ¡°It¡¯s delightful.¡±


    I nodded absently, pushing the bread around my plate as my mind spiraled. I had been a Despot in the Morea for a few months, but I had only genuinely settled into this role over the last month. There was still so much I didn¡¯t know¡ªso much Constantine¡¯s memories couldn¡¯t provide in full detail. The weight of that knowledge, the responsibility to act on it, had been bearing down on me for days.


    I forced a smile in Theodora¡¯s direction. ¡°It¡¯s excellent,¡± I replied, though I barely tasted it. My thoughts were miles away, circling around the looming meeting with the local lords and the weight of what they would expect from me.


    She reached across the table, her fingers lightly brushing mine. ¡°You seem distant again,¡± she observed softly. ¡°Is something troubling you?¡±


    I took a breath, glancing into her concerned eyes. ¡°It¡¯s just the usual matters¡ªaffairs of state. Nothing you need to worry about,¡± I said, though my words felt thin. How could I explain that I was still an outsider, drowning in memories not my own?


    A knock at the door interrupted us, and George Sphrantzes entered, bowing deeply. "My Despot," he said, his tone respectful. ¡°The council is assembled and awaits your presence. The local lords are eager for your insights.¡±


    I stood, grateful for the distraction, but expectation still pressed heavily on my shoulders. ¡°Duty calls,¡± Theodora said softly, offering me a supportive and knowing smile.


    With a nod, I followed George out of the chamber. The stone corridor echoed with our footsteps, and I could sense George¡¯s curiosity as we walked. His glances were brief, but I knew he was trying to read me, trying to understand whats wrong with me.


    ¡°You seem... different today, my Despot,¡± George ventured cautiously. ¡°Is everything well?¡±


    I nodded, though I wasn¡¯t entirely sure. ¡°These are challenging times,¡± I replied carefully. ¡°I¡¯ve been reflecting on our position¡ªour holdings, our future.¡±


    George nodded thoughtfully. ¡°Indeed, Elis and Arcadia holds great potential, but there are weaknesses. The Ottomans watch us closely, and the local nobility is still... adjusting to your rule. Not to mention your brothers...¡±


    His words were a reminder of how little time I had truly spent here. Though I had been named Despot a few months ago, I had only recently begun to settle into my position. The lords had yet to see much of me, and today¡¯s meeting would be their first real opportunity to gauge me as a leader.


    We arrived at the doors of the council chamber, the murmur of voices beyond falling silent as George pushed them open. Inside, the gathered lords and advisors turned to face me, their expressions a mix of curiosity and expectation. Some offered respectful nods, while others merely watched, waiting to see what kind of man I truly was.


    I took my seat at the head of the table, my heart pounding as I met their gazes. This is it. They didn¡¯t know me, not yet. I would need to tread carefully, to use the knowledge I had from Constantine¡¯s memories without revealing my uncertainties.


    ¡°Gentlemen,¡± I began, letting my voice carry across the room, ¡°as you know, I was appointed Despot of the Morea several months ago. However, I¡¯ve only just begun to fully settle here over the last month or so.¡± I allowed my gaze to sweep the room, seeing their curiosity deepen. ¡°Today, I ask for your reports and insights. Together, we will chart the best course for the prosperity and safety of this region.¡±


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    George nodded in approval before stepping forward. ¡°My Despot, Elis and Arcadia are rich in resources, but vulnerable. Our villages have suffered poor harvests this season, the roads are in disrepair, and our defenses at Clermont Castle are weakening.¡±


    Leaning forward, I surveyed the council chamber. Sunlight streamed through high windows, illuminating dust motes that danced above the polished table. The faces of the gathered lords were etched with concern, lines deepening around their eyes.


    "Tell me of our realm," I said, my voice steady but edged with urgency. "How many souls inhabit our lands? How does our treasury fare?"


    Nikolas, his hands clasped tightly before him, glanced at Markos. "Despot," he began, his voice gravelly with age, "we reckon between sixty and eighty thousand souls dwell within Elis and Arcadia. Many seek work elsewhere, so numbers shift like sand."


    Markos shifted in his seat, the young lord''s brow furrowed. "The late rains have cursed us," he said quietly. "Harvests fail, and our coffers feel the strain. We''ve but 15,000 silver stavrata and 2,000 gold ducats remaining. If the drought holds..."


    An uneasy silence fell. I could feel the weight of their unspoken fears, the desperation that clung to the air like a damp fog. My gaze swept the room, noting the downcast eyes, the subtle tension in their shoulders.


    George then added: ¡°The treasury has another 2000 gold ducats, my Despot¡±


    I nodded, processing the information. The population wasn¡¯t large, and the drop in profits was significant, but not disastrous. It was something we could manage¡ªif we took the right steps. ¡°We need to focus on stabilizing the harvests,¡± I said. ¡°If the drought worsens, what measures can we take to ensure water reaches the fields?¡±


    George leaned forward. ¡°We have water mills in some areas, but many villages are relying on outdated methods. We could allocate resources to repair and expand the water mills.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± I said, feeling a flicker of confidence. ¡°Let¡¯s start with the villages most affected. Allocate resources to strengthen their irrigation systems. We can¡¯t afford another poor harvest next year.¡±


    The lords exchanged approving nods. It wasn¡¯t a radical plan, but it was practical¡ªa step toward ensuring stability in a time of uncertainty.


    ¡°What about the roads?¡± I asked, turning to Markos. ¡°You mentioned they¡¯re in disrepair.¡±


    Markos nodded. ¡°Yes, Despot. The roads between Clermont and the smaller villages have become difficult to traverse, especially for merchants. Trade has slowed as a result.¡±


    I considered that. Trade was essential, both for the economy and for keeping the region connected. ¡°We¡¯ll prioritize repairing the main trade routes. Start with the roads between Clermont and the larger towns. Once that¡¯s done, we¡¯ll focus on the more remote areas.¡±


    There was a murmur of agreement around the table. It was another practical solution, and one that wouldn¡¯t stretch our resources too thin.


    George cleared his throat. ¡°There is also the matter of defense, Despot. The western walls of Clermont Castle are weakening, and our patrols along the borders are sparse. There have been minor skirmishes with bandits, but nothing major¡ªyet.¡±


    I frowned. The memories of Constantine¡¯s military knowledge stirred in my mind. The Clermont wall defenses were crucial, but so were the borders. The Ottomans loomed like a shadow over this region, and I knew from history what was coming.


    ¡°We need to strengthen both,¡± I said, my voice firm. ¡°Reinforce the western walls immediately, but don¡¯t neglect the borders. Increase the number of patrols along the key routes, and make sure we have enough men to handle any raids.¡±


    George nodded approvingly. ¡°A wise decision, Despot.¡±


    I glanced around the table, seeing a mixture of relief and approval in the faces of the lords. They had expected leadership, and while my solutions weren¡¯t revolutionary, they were grounded in practicality. It was enough for now.


    ¡°There¡¯s one more thing I¡¯ll need,¡± I said, leaning back in my chair. ¡°I want detailed reports on the population, the current state of the villages, and our trade deals. I need to know exactly what we¡¯re working with if we¡¯re to make the right decisions going forward.¡±


    Nikolas nodded. ¡°We¡¯ll have those reports compiled for you, Despot.¡±


    I gave a small nod, feeling the tension in the room ease slightly. The meeting had gone rather well, but the pressure was far from over. There was still so much to do, and every decision I made felt like it was being scrutinized, weighed against the expectations of the man they thought I was.


    The rest of the meeting passed with discussions of smaller issues¡ªminor adjustments to agricultural planning, trade routes, and village patrols. The lords seemed comfortable with the direction I was taking, and for now, that was enough.


    As the meeting adjourned, the lords rose and filed out of the chamber, offering respectful nods as they departed. George lingered behind, waiting until the others had left before approaching me.


    ¡°You handled that well,¡± he said quietly. ¡°Your decisions were clear, and the lords respect that.¡±


    I nodded, though the weight of it all still pressed down on me. ¡°

 Chapter Six: The Seed of Ambition

    Clermont Castle, Late October 1428


    The sea breeze from the Ionian Sea wafted through the open windows of my tower chamber, carrying the crisp scent of salt and the distant murmur of waves. Seated at the highest point of Clermont Castle, I gazed out over the sun-splashed waters, cradling a cup of bitter herbal brew in my hands. The taste was unfamiliar, but its warmth grounded me¡ªa small comfort in a world that still felt foreign.


    Two weeks. It had been two weeks since I awoke in this world, in this body: Constantine Palaiologos, Despot of Morea.


    The initial shock had mostly subsided, replaced by a restless energy. Ideas coursed through me¡ªideas born from a future I remembered vividly but could no longer access. The knowledge I possessed was potent enough to alter the fate of empires. The question that weighed on me now was how to wield it wisely.


    Leaning back, I allowed my thoughts to drift. Visions of maps, trade routes, and innovations from the modern world flashed through my mind¡ªgunpowder, factories, printing presses. Columbus hadn¡¯t even been born yet, I reminded myself. What if I could lead the charge in discovering new lands, meeting the Aztecs and Incas decades ahead of time? The thought tempted me, tantalized my imagination.


    But reality has a way of tempering dreams. Discovery and expansion were long-term goals. Right now, survival was paramount. The Ottomans were closing in, and Constantinople¡¯s days were numbered. My thoughts returned to the present danger. I had knowledge of advanced weaponry¡ªfirearms that could turn the tide of battle¡ªbut how does one recreate muskets and cannons without modern machinery?


    A soft knock at the door pulled me from my reverie. George Sphrantzes, entered with the quiet confidence I¡¯d come to rely on over these past weeks.


    ¡°Good morning, my Despot,¡± he said, offering a slight bow.


    ¡°Good morning, George,¡± I replied, gesturing for him to sit. ¡°We have much to discuss.¡±


    He took a seat opposite me, his sharp eyes studying my face. He had no doubt sensed the shift in me over the past few days. Two weeks ago, I was adrift; now, a plan ¡ªstill nascent¡ªwas taking shape.


    ¡°I¡¯ve reached a decision,¡± I began, setting my cup aside. ¡°In the last two weeks, I¡¯ve been reflecting on what must be done to safeguard the whole of Morea¡ªand possibly more.¡±


    His eyebrows rose slightly, but he remained silent, waiting for me to elaborate.


    ¡°You¡¯ve noticed my renewed interest in technology, agriculture, and trade. I believe these are the keys to strengthening our land. If we act swiftly and wisely, we can restore prosperity to the region, but we must be bold in our approach. The Ottomans won¡¯t wait for us to catch up.¡±


    George nodded thoughtfully. ¡°And how do you propose we achieve this, my Despot?¡±


    I leaned forward, feeling a surge of excitement. ¡°We start by focusing on what we have¡ªour resources, our strategic location. There are methods and strategies that haven¡¯t been tried before. With the right investments and careful planning, we can make Morea into something much greater than it is now.¡±


    His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in thought. ¡°You speak of innovations,¡± he said slowly. ¡°New ideas. But how can we be certain they will work?¡±


    A slight smile tugged at my lips. He had no idea the true source of my knowledge, and that was probably for the best. ¡°Small steps, George. We¡¯ll start with what we know, what¡¯s within our grasp, and then build from there.¡±


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    George paused, his gaze thoughtful. "Step by step," he murmured, as if testing the idea. "A prudent course, my lord."


    A subtle sense of relief eased the tension in my shoulders. His agreement, though cautious, was a vital first step.


    "Very well," I replied, rising from my seat. "We have much work ahead. Funds must be secured, craftsmen summoned, materials gathered." I met his eyes. "We shall commence without delay."


    Foundations of a Plan


    The chamber felt emptier after George departed, the silence amplifying the weight of the decisions ahead. The faint smell of burning olive oil from the lanterns lingered in the air as I paced by the window, my mind racing. Anxiety twisted in my gut, the unease that always comes before embarking on something monumental.


    If my vision was to succeed, I needed funds¡ª a significant amount of gold to finance the first steps. I returned to my desk and unrolled a fresh sheet of parchment, dipping my quill into ink. I began drafting a letter addressed to Constantinople.


    ¡°Dear Mother,¡± I wrote, the words flowing more easily now. ¡°I have made a decision to sell my holdings in Selymbria.¡±


    The admission stung. Selymbria, once a prosperous town on the Sea of Marmara, had been a valuable asset for years. Its fertile lands and strategic position were a point of pride, even in the face of Ottoman raids. But now, sentiment had to take a backseat to practicality. Selling the land would provide the funds I needed to turn my ambitions for Morea into reality. I sealed the letter and placed it atop a stack of documents for George.


    When he returned from Constantinople, I would have the resources to begin in earnest.


    George had been right to question the scope of my plans. But I had clarity now: Glarentza, Elis, would become a hub of industry¡ªfactories, trade, and innovation. The small cotton fields of Messinia would serve as the foundation for producing paper for my printing presses. I believed I could attempt to recreate a rudimentary movable type printing press, though the challenges were immense. Without precision tools or refined metals, the mechanics would be crude at best. I would need to find skilled craftsmen willing to experiment, to push the boundaries of their traditional methods. It wouldn''t be easy, and failure was almost certain at first. But perhaps, starting small we could gradually innovate.


    I recalled how we analyzed, during my university days, the revolutionary impact of Johannes Gutenberg¡¯s invention, which transformed society by facilitating mass communication and literacy, allowing ideas to spread rapidly and widely. My background in silk printing provided me with practical knowledge of materials and techniques, enhancing my ability to innovate. I realized that I was on the brink of altering the course of history myself¡ªby adapting and improving upon the printing press, I could leave a lasting mark on my era. This system would not only make information accessible to the populace but also empower them¡ªa concept entirely novel for this time. The thought of introducing such an innovation thrilled me; it was a way to elevate the collective consciousness of the whole world.


    Meanwhile, just yesterday, I was surprised to see a Venetian mercenary at the port of Glarentza, accompanied by a trader, selling a primitive hand culverin. I hadn¡¯t realised such weapons were already emerging! From what I had learned and Constantine memories, even cannons were still in their infancy, primarily used for sieges by both Western Kings and the Ottomans. It cost me a small fortune to acquire the hand culverin, but I couldn¡¯t let the opportunity slip away. I planned to study its design, hopefully improve upon it, and ultimately create an arsenal capable of defending this land against the looming Ottoman threat.


    Footsteps approached, and the door creaked open. George entered, his expression serious but expectant.


    ¡°My Despot,¡± he began, offering a slight bow, ¡°all is prepared for my journey to Constantinople.¡±


    I handed him the sealed letter and a detailed list of supplies. ¡°Recruit skilled men¡ªblacksmiths, craftsmen, scribes, anyone who can help us build what we need. We¡¯ll require materials as well. There are innovations I plan to introduce.¡±


    George glanced over the list, his brow furrowing slightly. ¡°You¡¯re planning something beyond immediate defense, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    I met his gaze steadily. ¡°Yes. But it¡¯s all connected. By building up our infrastructure , we can finance and equip a more formidable army. We need to think beyond mere survival. We must build for the future.¡±


    George pressed his lips together, clearly weighing the implications. Finally, he nodded. ¡°As you command, my Despot. I will return with what you need.¡±


    ¡°Safe travels, my friend,¡± I said, my voice full of the confidence I knew I needed to project.


    As George departed, a wave of determination surged through me. Glarentza, this modest coastal town, would become the heart of my grand vision. Factories would rise, and the town would become a center of trade and wealth. The seed had been planted, and now the real work would begin.

 Chapter Seven: Theodoras Dilemma

    It was early morning when Theodora found herself pacing the cold stone floor of her chamber in Clermont Castle. A letter lay open on her desk, its contents lingering in her mind. Written in the elegant yet pointed hand of her brother, Carlo II Tocco, the message was both cordial and subtly insistent.


    "Creusa," it began¡ªhe always used her birth name when writing in private. "I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I have often wondered how you fare in the court of the Despot. Is Constantine treating you with the respect and care you deserve? I hope you have begun to find your place among the Byzantine nobles and that your transition to life in Morea has been as smooth as possible."


    Theodora read the next part with a mix of frustration and resignation.


    "But let me speak plainly, sister. You know as well as I that securing your position¡ªand our family''s standing¡ªrequires the blessing of children. Have you discussed this with Constantine? The sooner you produce an heir, the stronger your influence will become, both in the Morea and our family."


    She could almost hear his warm but stern voice reminding her of the unspoken duty that weighed upon her every day. The expectation to bear a child was ever-present, but the thought of pressing Constantine on the matter, given his recent behavior, filled her with uncertainty.


    Carlo continued, turning his attention to the troubles brewing in Epirus.


    "I must also share some troubling rumors," he wrote. "There are whispers that Memnone and his supporters have grown restless. I do not have solid proof yet, but they may be courting the Ottomans to undermine our rule. I do not mean to alarm you, Creusa, but remain vigilant. Should you hear anything, or should Constantine have any insights, I would value your counsel."


    Theodora''s eyes lingered on this final passage, her mind swirling with its implications. Carlo''s words were more of a warning than a direct request for help, but they placed her in a precarious position. She had married into the Byzantine court and sworn her loyalty to Constantine, yet now her brother was reminding her of the ties that still bound her to her family''s fortunes.


    The heavy oak door creaked open, and Constantine entered, his presence as steady and imposing as the stone walls around them. His eyes softened when he saw her near the window, the morning light casting a warm glow on her troubled face.


    "Theodora," he greeted, his voice gentle but probing. "You seem preoccupied. Has something happened?"


    For a heartbeat, Theodora considered revealing the letter, asking for his advice as a partner. Yet, an instinct held her back. How could she speak of Carlo''s subtle urgings to produce an heir or the rumors of rebellion in Epirus when Constantine already bore the weight of the empire on his shoulders? He had enough concerns without her adding to them.


    "It''s just a letter from my brother," she replied softly, folding the parchment and tucking it into the folds of her gown. "He wishes to know how I am adjusting to life here, that is all."


    Constantine nodded, though the furrow in his brow deepened. "Does he need anything? Your family is important to you, and therefore to me."


    She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "He only expresses the usual concerns." Her voice faltered at the end, the enormity of their situation pressing upon her. "But nothing that you need trouble yourself with, not now."


    "Still," he persisted, his gaze steady. "If there is something you need, you should tell me. I would not have you worry alone."


    The tenderness in his words warmed her, yet it also tightened the knot of anxiety in her chest. He was trying to be supportive, but there were matters he could not solve simply by being there. "Thank you," she managed, a faint smile gracing her lips. "But I can handle this. Our people need your strength more than I need your comfort at this moment."


    Constantine studied her for a moment longer, his eyes searching hers for an unspoken truth. Finally, he nodded, though reluctance shaded his expression. "Very well. I''ll be back in time for supper. If you need anything, just call for the servants."


    With a brief, tender kiss on her forehead, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. Theodora watched him go, a wave of relief mingled with guilt washing over her. He deserved to know more, to be kept in the loop about the tensions brewing in Epirus, yet she held back, uncertain how he would react to her brother''s demands and suspicions.


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    Once alone, Theodora returned to her desk, smoothing the letter again. The last few lines gnawed at her. Her brother was not asking outright for Constantine''s involvement; he was planting the seed, expecting her to tend to it. Carlo was not naive; he knew Constantine held influence and army, and if he chose to intervene, it could tip the balance of power. Yet bringing such matters to her husband''s attention could also draw him into a conflict he might be unprepared for. More than that, it risked exposing her as a conduit for her family''s ambitions rather than as a loyal Despotess.


    She sighed, pressing fingers to her temples. The weight of Carlo''s letter lingered. How much should she reveal? After a moment''s hesitation, she pulled a sheet of parchment closer. The quill hovered above the page before she began, each word chosen carefully.


    "My dearest brother," she wrote. "Your letter brought me great joy. The Morea is a land of contrasts, and I discover something new daily."


    She paused, the tip of the quill tapping softly. Should she mention Constantine''s transformation? Deciding, she continued.


    "Constantine has been most attentive, though he has faced his own trials recently. There was a time when he seemed quite distant, lost even, but in the past few days, I have noticed a change in him. He carries a renewed sense of purpose, as if something has awakened within him."


    She paused, staring at the ink that glistened on the parchment. It was not a lie, but it was not the full truth either. Constantine''s change had indeed been dramatic; one moment, he was brooding and withdrawn, and now he seemed determined, almost driven. Yet this newfound vigor unsettled her. Was it the pressure of impending war? A surge of inspiration? Or something else entirely?


    Shaking her head, she continued.


    "As for your concerns about an heir, know that the matter is not lost on me. I understand well the importance of securing our family''s future. Rest assured, I will broach the subject with my husband when the time is right. However, such matters require delicacy. I must navigate these waters carefully, and I ask for your patience in this."


    Theodora hesitated again, her quill hovering over the paper. Carlo''s suspicions about Memnone and his supporters needed addressing, but she did not want to appear overly concerned. She decided to strike a middle ground.


    "As for the unrest in Epirus, I shall keep my ears open. The Morea has its share of troubles, and Constantine''s attention is spread thin. Nonetheless, I will try to discern what I can. Be vigilant, dear brother, and remember that the walls have ears, even here in Morea. We must tread carefully."


    Satisfied with her words, she signed the letter and set it aside to dry. It was a measured response, one that did not promise more than she could offer. She had left out details of the turmoil in her heart and the sense of being caught between two worlds¡ªher life as Creusa Tocco, bound by family and blood, and her new identity as Theodora, Despotess of the Morea, sworn to her husband and his cause.


    Rising from her chair, she moved to the window and gazed out at the sprawling landscape of the Morea. The sun had climbed higher, casting long shadows over the rugged hills and valleys below. This was her new reality, her new home, yet it felt foreign in so many ways. The path ahead was unclear, but one truth stood out starkly: whatever course she chose, it would define not just her future, but the future of all those she loved.


    With a sigh, Theodora folded the letter and sealed it with wax, pressing her family''s crest into the soft material. She would send it off later, and then, she knew, the waiting would begin. She would wait to see how Carlo would respond, waiting for the right moment to speak to Constantine, waiting for the forces at play in Epirus and the Morea to reveal their true intentions.


    But for now, she needed to attend to her duties. Turning away from the window, she straightened her gown and moved to leave her chambers. There was much to do, and while her heart remained troubled, she would not allow herself to be paralyzed by indecision. She was Theodora, Despotess of Morea, and for better or worse, her path was now entwined with Constantine''s.


    As she stepped into the corridor, she whispered a silent prayer, hoping that whatever the days ahead held, she would find the strength to navigate them with grace and resolve. She would need every ounce of both in the delicate balance between family and duty.

 Chapter Eight: Forging the Future

    The soft glow of candlelight bathed Michael''s private chamber, casting long shadows across the scattered parchments and sketches that covered his wooden table. Night had settled over the Morea, and the usual bustle of Clermont Castle had quieted to a hushed calm. Michael sat alone, quill in hand, as he meticulously revised his designs for the printing press. With George still away in Constantinople gathering artisans and supplies, Michael seized the solitude to advance his plans.


    Earlier that week, he had met discreetly with Dimitrios the carpenter and Nikolaos the blacksmith. Their practical insights had been invaluable, helping him adjust his designs to align with the materials and techniques available. They discussed the feasibility of constructing the press''s frame, selecting sturdy oak for its durability, and debated the crafting of the screw mechanism¡ªan untested endeavor that Nikolaos was cautiously optimistic about.


    As Michael reviewed his notes, a new thought struck him. Initially, he had planned to produce texts in Greek, catering to the local clergy and nobility. However, after conducting some inquiries, he realized that books were luxury items, often costing between 40 to 80 gold florins. The market within the Morea was rather limited, but the demand in Western Europe, where Latin was the lingua franca of the Church and academia, was vast.


    If I produce texts in Latin, he mused, I could tap into a much larger market, generating substantial profits. These funds could support his other projects and strengthen the Morea''s economy. Moreover, producing Latin texts might align with his brother''s efforts to unite the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic Churches¡ªa strategic move that could attract Western support against the Ottomans.


    Determined, Michael began reworking his movable type designs to accommodate the Latin alphabet. He carefully sketched each letter, ensuring uniformity and legibility. His knowledge of typography helped him optimize the size and spacing of the type, aiming to make the books more compact and cost-effective without sacrificing readability.


    To produce a Latin Bible¡ªthe most logical and profitable starting point¡ªhe needed a reference copy. He decided to acquire one from the Catholic Bishop in Patras, a city under Venetian control not far from Clermont. The bishop was reputed to have an extensive library of Western texts. Michael drafted a letter requesting an audience, framing his interest as scholarly.


    Turning his attention to the production of ink and paper, he set plans in motion to establish small workshops. He had spoken with local craftsmen about sourcing linseed oil and lampblack for ink, experimenting with mixtures to achieve the right consistency. For paper, he proposed using cotton and linen rags to produce high-quality sheets, collaborating with Elias, a miller intrigued by the venture.


    A gentle knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Michael quickly organized his parchments, ensuring sensitive documents were tucked away. "Enter," he called out.


    The door opened slowly, and Theodora stepped inside, her features softly illuminated by the candlelight. "Still awake at this hour?" she asked with a faint smile.


    Michael looked up, masking his surprise. "Time seems to slip away when I''m engrossed in these matters."


    She approached the table, her gaze drifting over the assortment of sketches and notes. "You''ve been quite occupied lately. The servants mention you''ve been meeting with various craftsmen."


    "Just attending to some administrative tasks," he replied lightly. "There are always repairs and improvements needed around the estate."


    She nodded, her expression thoughtful. "I suppose the duties of a despot are never-ending."


    "Indeed," he agreed, hoping to steer the conversation away from specifics.


    Theodora picked up a parchment displaying architectural drawings of a warehouse. "Is this a new building you''re planning?"


    "Yes, a storage facility," Michael said smoothly. "With the harvest season approaching, we''ll need additional space."


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    "That seems prudent," she remarked, placing the parchment back on the table. "You''ve always been forward-thinking."


    He offered a modest smile. "I try to anticipate our needs."


    A brief silence settled between them. Sensing her lingering curiosity, Michael decided to shift the focus. "And how have you been? I hope the preparations for the upcoming festival aren''t too burdensome."


    She seemed to accept the change in topic. "They keep me busy, but it''s a welcome distraction. The people could use something to lift their spirits."


    "Agreed," he said. "It''s important to maintain our traditions, especially in challenging times."


    Theodora glanced around the room once more. "Well, I didn''t mean to interrupt your work. I just wanted to ensure you weren''t overexerting yourself."


    "I appreciate your concern," Michael replied sincerely. "I was just wrapping up for the night."


    She gave a slight nod. "Very well. Don''t forget to rest."


    "I won''t," he assured her.


    As she turned to leave, Michael felt a pang of guilt for withholding information from her. Theodora had been a steadfast companion, but the nature of his projects required discretion. He watched as she quietly closed the door behind her, the soft echo of her footsteps fading down the corridor.


    Once alone again, Michael exhaled slowly. He retrieved the hidden parchments from beneath the architectural plans. The musket designs remained concealed, a secret even more guarded than the printing press. The potential ramifications of introducing advanced weaponry were immense, and he couldn''t risk the information falling into the wrong hands.


    Refocusing on his work, he revisited the list of materials needed for the printing press and the workshops:


    - *Printing Press Materials*:


    - Sturdy oak for the frame


    - Iron and steel for the screw mechanism


    - Lead, tin, and antimony for casting movable type


    - *Ink Production*:


    - Linseed oil


    - Lampblack (soot)


    - *Paper Production*:


    - Cotton and linen rags


    - Equipment for pulping and pressing fibers


    He made annotations next to each item, noting potential suppliers and any logistical challenges. The acquisition of antimony might prove difficult, but he hoped George would have success in sourcing it from Constantinople.


    Michael then drafted the letter to the Bishop of Patras:


    "Your Excellency,


    I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I am eager to discuss matters of mutual interest that could enrich our region''s cultural and spiritual life. At your convenience, I would appreciate the opportunity to meet with you.


    Respectfully,


    Constantine Palaiologos, Despot of the Morea"


    Sealing the letter, he set it aside for dispatch in the morning. The thought of obtaining a Latin Bible filled him with a sense of urgency. The sooner he had a reference, the sooner he could proceed with producing a work that might open doors both economically and diplomatically.


    As the candles burned low, Michael organized his parchments, ensuring that sensitive documents were securely stored. He placed the most critical designs into a leather satchel, which he locked inside a wooden chest concealed behind a tapestry¡ªa necessary precaution.


    Extinguishing the candles, he moved to the window. The night air was cool, and the stars shimmered like distant lanterns. He allowed himself a moment of quiet contemplation. The path he had chosen was fraught with challenges, but each step brought him closer to his goals.


    "Knowledge is power," he whispered to himself. "And with it, i can forge a new destiny."


    Turning away from the window, Michael prepared to rest. Tomorrow would bring new tasks and, hopefully, progress. As he lay down, his mind buzzed with plans and contingencies. Trust was a luxury he could scarcely afford, but discretion was essential. The weight of secrecy pressed upon him, but he bore it willingly.


    Authors note: Chapters 9 to 13 are available in the Patreon page for subscribers.

 Chapter Nine: A Clash of Faith and Unity

    The sun hung low over Mystras, casting a golden hue across the city''s winding streets and ancient walls. Inside the castle''s stone corridors, an air of tension simmered. Theodore Palaiologos stood by the narrow window of his private chamber, gazing out at the distant hills. His thoughts were troubled, swirling around the emperor''s latest attempt to unify the Orthodox and Catholic churches¡ªa proposition he found deeply unsettling.


    A soft knock at the door pulled him from his reverie. A servant entered, bowing deeply. "Master Plethon awaits you, my lord."


    Theodore''s expression hardened. "Show him in," he replied curtly, his voice tinged with a mix of irritation and reluctant anticipation.


    The door opened to reveal *Georgios Gemistos Plethon*. At nearly seventy years of age, Plethon carried himself with the dignity of a seasoned sage. His long beard, streaked with white, framed a face marked by wisdom and years of contemplation. Dressed in traditional Byzantine robes that reflected both his status as a scholar and a magistrate, he exuded an aura of quiet authority.


    "Theodore," Plethon greeted with a slight nod, his sharp eyes reflecting both respect and concern.


    "Plethon," Theodore acknowledged, gesturing to a chair opposite him. "Sit. We have much to discuss."


    Plethon settled into the seat, folding his hands gracefully in his lap. "I assume this is about the emperor''s efforts toward church unification."


    Theodore''s eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and unease. "You have been advising my brother on this matter. Tell me, do you truly support this union? Do you advocate surrendering our faith to the whims of Rome?"


    Plethon met his gaze steadily. "I support the survival of our people, Theodore. The emperor believes that unifying the churches may secure the aid we desperately need from the West to withstand the Ottomans."


    Theodore rose abruptly, pacing the room with restless energy. "Survival at what cost?" he exclaimed. "Have you forgotten the Fourth Crusade? The Latins desecrated Constantinople, defiled our sanctuaries. They are not our allies but invaders cloaked in the guise of faith."


    Plethon sighed softly, his gaze distant as if recalling memories of the troubled past. "I have not forgotten. The scars of those days remain with us all. But I also see the encroaching shadow of the Ottomans, growing darker each day. If we stand alone, our heritage and beliefs may be extinguished entirely."


    Theodore stopped by a table where an icon of the Virgin Mary rested, illuminated by flickering candlelight. He traced the edge of the icon with his finger, his voice dropping to a somber tone. "By aligning with Rome, we risk corrupting the essence of our Orthodoxy. The filioque, papal supremacy¡ªthese are not trivial matters but fundamental contradictions to our faith."


    Plethon leaned forward, his expression earnest. "I understand your concerns, but consider this: Could a temporary compromise preserve our people and, ultimately, our faith? Adaptation does not mean abandonment. We might negotiate terms that protect our traditions while gaining the support we need."


    Theodore turned to face him, his eyes searching Plethon''s face. "You speak of negotiation, yet history shows us that the Latins seek domination, not alliance. They would see us kneel before their pope, forsaking our own patriarch."


    Plethon''s eyes reflected a depth of wisdom born from years of study and contemplation. "Theodore, throughout my life, I have devoted myself to understanding the philosophies that shaped our world. Plato taught us the importance of the greater good and the need for unity in the face of adversity. Perhaps, in this moment, we must embrace such ideals."


    Theodore''s brow furrowed. "I know well your admiration for the ancient philosophers. Your teachings have enlightened many, including myself. But this is not a theoretical debate¡ªit is about the very soul of our people."


    Plethon nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed, and that is why we must consider all paths. Our empire stands at a crossroads. The choices we make now will echo through generations. I fear that rigid adherence to tradition may lead us to ruin."


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    A silence settled between them. Theodore felt a pang of uncertainty, a crack in the armor of his convictions. "You have always been a visionary, Plethon, advocating for reforms and new ways of thinking. But some of your ideas¡ªreturning to Hellenic traditions, reviving ancient philosophies¡ªthey border on heresy."


    Plethon smiled faintly, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Is seeking wisdom heretical? I believe that understanding our past can guide us toward a better future. My proposals are meant to strengthen, not undermine, our society."


    Theodore shook his head. "Perhaps, but the people are not ready for such radical changes. They cling to their faith as a beacon in these dark times."


    Plethon''s expression grew more serious. "And if that beacon leads them off a cliff? Leadership requires difficult decisions. Sometimes, we must guide the people toward what they need, not what they want."


    Theodore resumed his pacing. "You speak as if you would reshape the very foundations of our world."


    "Only to fortify them," Plethon replied calmly. "Imagine an empire revitalized by the wisdom of our ancestors, unified in purpose, and strong enough to resist any foe."


    Theodore paused, considering the vision painted before him. For a moment, he glimpsed the passion that drove Plethon¡ªa deep desire to revive the greatness of Hellenic culture and philosophy. Yet, the practicalities seemed insurmountable.


    "Our differences run deep," Theodore said quietly. "The church would never accept such changes. Nor would the people."


    "Change is seldom easy," Plethon acknowledged. "But it is necessary for survival. I do not suggest abandoning our faith but enriching it, ensuring it endures through the trials ahead."


    Theodore looked into Plethon''s eyes, seeing both the idealistic visionary and the pragmatic thinker. "Your words have merit, but they also carry great risk. Aligning with the Latins, embracing new philosophies¡ªit could lead to unrest, even rebellion."


    "True," Plethon conceded. "But what is the alternative? To stand still while the world changes around us? To cling to the past until it crumbles beneath us?"


    A heavy sigh escaped Theodore''s lips. "I must consider the well-being of my people. Their faith gives them comfort, a sense of identity. I cannot strip that away."


    Plethon rose from his seat, his aged form still commanding respect. "I do not ask you to strip away their faith, but to strengthen it through wisdom and resilience. To prepare them for the challenges ahead."


    Theodore felt the weight of leadership pressing upon him. Memories of his father''s teachings echoed in his mind¡ªlessons of faith, duty, and the burdens of rule. "I will ponder your counsel, old friend. But I cannot promise to embrace your path."


    Plethon offered a slight bow. "That is all I ask¡ªthat you consider it. May wisdom guide your decisions."


    As Plethon turned to leave, Theodore called after him. "Plethon."


    The philosopher paused at the doorway, glancing back.


    "Despite our differences, I value your insight. Perhaps there is a path that honors both our traditions and the need for survival."


    A gentle smile touched Plethon''s lips. "There is always a way for those willing to seek it."


    He departed, his footsteps echoing softly down the corridor. Theodore stood alone, the flickering candles casting dancing shadows across the chamber walls. He looked once more at the icon of the Virgin Mary, her serene gaze offering no clear answers.


    "Am I blind to the realities before me?" he whispered. Doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve, yet he clung to his convictions.


    He moved to the window, the cool evening air brushing against his face. The stars began to emerge, tiny beacons of light in the vast darkness. Somewhere beyond those hills, enemies gathered strength, and the fate of his people hung in the balance.


    "Faith must be our anchor," he murmured, though uncertainty lingered in his heart.


    Theodore remained there long after darkness fell, wrestling with the echoes of their conversation. He grappled with the tension between preserving the soul of his people and ensuring their survival¡ªa dilemma with no easy answers.

 Chapter Ten: Foundations of an Empire

    Clermont Castle, February 1429


    "That was delicious, my dear," I said, setting my fork down after savoring the last bite of the lamb chops.


    Theodora smiled softly. "I''m glad you enjoyed it, my Despot."


    I looked at her curiously. "You¡¯ve barely touched yours."


    She hesitated, glancing down at her plate before answering. "I haven¡¯t had much appetite these past few days."


    A thought struck me, bringing memories of my sister in my previous life. "Do you think you might be pregnant?"


    Theodora nodded. "I believe I am, my Despot."


    Pregnant. A child... though doubt crept in almost immediately. Is it truly mine? Technically, I¡¯m not Constantine. I¡¯m Michael, a man thrust into another life, into another body. But the thought of having a child in this new reality brought an unexpected warmth, a flicker of hope amidst the chaos.


    During the winter months, I was anything but idle. Most of my time was spent sketching blueprints for various projects, which I kept under strict secrecy.


    The prototype for the printing press began to take shape¡ªwooden frames assembled discreetly in the workshop. Early tests with homemade paper and ink left my fingers stained but spirits high.


    My firearm designs progressed surprisingly well, partly thanks to the Venetian hand culverin, which gave me insights. The musket design was coming together¡ªmy memory of paper cartridges and the stability of bronze for cannons was proving invaluable. If only George would return with the craftsmen, I mused, rolling a bronze prototype between my palms. Skilled hands were needed to breathe life into these designs. Acquiring gunpowder would be tricky too; I¡¯d have to look toward the Venetians to procure the necessary ingredients for local production.


    One amusing incident this winter was introducing double-entry bookkeeping to one of my tax collectors. The poor man was utterly baffled by the concept; it was a simple innovation in my time, but here it was revolutionary. Moments like that reminded me of the advantages I held¡ªnot just technological knowledge but the organizational skills of the 21st century. The thought filled me with a surge of confidence. If I could survive long enough, these innovations might change the course of history.


    While waiting for George''s return from Constantinople, I busied myself with organizing the region. My "triple base" strategy was beginning to take shape: Andravida would serve as the agricultural hub, collecting and distributing crops from the fertile lands of Elis. Clermont Castle would become the center of my military operations and home to a new arsenal. Glarentza would be the commercial and trade hub, housing workshops, assembly lines, and, eventually, a new shipyard and port. Plans for a hospital, theater, and distillery danced in my mind, though those would have to wait until the treasury allowed for such expenses.


    But the reality of my finances was becoming painfully clear. The costs of building new infrastructure was already draining my limited resources. My treasury was running low, and I had been forced to sell some of my new estates in Arcadia to keep the projects going. It was a temporary solution, a patch over a leaking ship. I could only hope that George would return with adequate funds; otherwise, my grand designs might collapse before they could fully take root.


    In the meantime, my workers were busy improving the roads between these districts and building a large warehouse adjacent to the castle, which would serve as a new arsenal and workshop for the printing press. The labor scarcity was a growing concern; with fewer than fifteen thousand souls in Glarentza and its surroundings, I needed to attract more settlers.


    I extended offers of land grants to Christians from other regions, especially those suffering under Ottoman rule. Within a few months, fifty Tsakonian families, some Serbians from my mother¡¯s homeland, and even a few wealthy Thessalonian families had answered the call. By March, the population had swelled by a couple of thousand¡ªstill insufficient, but a promising start.


    My military, however, remained my Achilles'' heel. I had a small force of forty horsemen, twenty crossbowmen, fifty archers, and about two hundred and fifty infantry. In times of crisis, I could levy around two thousand light infantry from the local populace, but they were poorly trained and of limited use. My brother Thomas, stationed in Kalavryta, could be relied upon for support if needed. However, I held no such confidence in Theodore, who resided in Mystras, more concerned with his spiritual musings than the defense of our lands.


    As for the Venetians, I needed to tread carefully. Their holdings in the Peloponnese could be both a threat and an opportunity. I couldn¡¯t afford hostility with them if I was to stand any chance against the Ottomans.


    Andravida Crop Fields, March 1429


    The sun blazed overhead, its warmth seeping into the fertile soil of the Andravida fields. Beads of sweat trickled down my forehead as I stood among the rows of young wheat, the rich scent of earth and budding crops filling the air. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, but it did little to alleviate the heat¡ªor my mounting frustration.


    "Observe carefully," I called out, my voice carrying over the murmurs of the assembled farmers. Grasping the handles of the new heavy plough, I guided it forward, the metal blade slicing through the earth with ease. "With this design, your oxen can turn the soil more deeply and efficiently, enriching it for a better harvest."


    The farmers exchanged wary glances. An elder among them, his face weathered by years under the sun, stepped forward. "Despot," he began cautiously, tugging at the brim of his worn hat, "we have tilled these lands as our fathers and grandfathers did before us. Such a contraption is... unfamiliar. Our oxen might not take kindly to it."


    I clenched my jaw, feeling the tension knotting in my shoulders. "Change brings prosperity," I replied, striving to keep my tone patient. "The old ways have served well, but with this plough, you can work faster and yield more."


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    A younger farmer shifted his weight, eyeing the plough skeptically. "But what if it breaks the oxen''s stride? Or damages the soil? The risk seems great."


    Suppressing a sigh, I gestured to the rich, dark furrows the plough had already carved. "The evidence lies before you. The soil turns smoothly, and the oxen bear the weight without strain."


    Yet their doubtful expressions remained. The chorus of hesitant murmurs grew, each concern a barrier I struggled to dismantle. I ran a hand through my hair, the strands damp with sweat. Patience, Constantine, I reminded myself. These men need reassurance, not reprimand.


    Just then, the distant thud of hooves reached my ears, growing louder against the backdrop of rustling crops. I turned to see a lone rider galloping toward us, dust trailing in his wake. The farmers parted as he reined in his horse, the animal snorting and pawing at the ground.


    "Despot," the messenger panted, dismounting swiftly and offering a hurried bow. "George Sphrantzes has returned from Constantinople. He awaits you at the castle in Clermont.¡±


    A surge of energy coursed through me, momentarily dispelling my frustration. "Thank you," I replied, my gaze shifting back to the farmers. Their eyes reflected curiosity and perhaps a hint of relief at the interruption.


    "We shall continue this demonstration another time," I announced. "Consider what you''ve seen today."


    Without further delay, I mounted my horse, a chestnut mare who responded eagerly to my touch. As I spurred her forward, the wind whipped against my face, carrying with it the mingled scents of wildflowers and freshly tilled earth. The fields and scattered cottages blurred past, my thoughts racing even faster than the landscape.


    George has returned. What news does he bring? Have craftsmen agreed to come?


    The journey to Glarentza was swift, and the familiar landmarks of the Morean countryside flew by. The sun cast long shadows as it began its descent, painting the sky with hues of gold and crimson. My anticipation grew with each passing mile, a mixture of hope and apprehension settling in my chest.


    As I approached the castle gates, the stone walls rising proudly against the horizon, I noticed an unusual bustle. A crowd had gathered¡ªmen, women, and children clustered together, their belongings piled onto carts or strapped to weary mules. The murmur of countless voices filled the air, a mixture of dialects and accents.


    Dismounting, I handed the reins to a waiting stable boy. My gaze swept over the scene before me. George stood near the entrance, his posture straight despite the weariness evident in his eyes. Beside him stood a dignified man in simple but well-made robes, his hands clasped before him.


    "George," I called out, striding toward them. "Your return is most welcome."


    He turned, a genuine smile breaking through his tired features. "Despot," he replied, inclining his head. "The journey was long but fruitful."


    "I see you''ve brought companions," I noted, glancing at the assembled crowd.


    "Indeed," George affirmed. "More than we anticipated."


    The robed man stepped forward, bowing deeply. "Greetings, Despot Constantine. I am Theophilus Draga?, at your service. Your mother, Her Holiness, sends her blessings and this letter." He extended a sealed parchment toward me.


    Accepting the letter, I studied the man before me. Theophilus Draga?¡ªa name that stirred faint echoes within Constantine''s memories. A scholar and distant relative, respected for his wisdom and piety. His eyes held a keen intelligence, and his bearing had a calm steadiness.


    "Welcome to Glarentza, Theophilus," I said warmly. "Your arrival is timely. We have much to discuss."


    He nodded appreciatively. "I am honored to be of service, Despot."


    Turning back to George, I couldn''t contain my curiosity. "Tell me, what news from Constantinople?"


    George''s expression grew more serious, yet there was a spark of satisfaction in his eyes. "We managed to secure two-thirds of the gold we sought," he reported. "But more importantly, word of your endeavors has spread. Over twenty skilled craftsmen and their families agreed to accompany us. Blacksmiths, carpenters, masons¡ªall eager to build a new future here."


    I felt a swell of gratitude and excitement. "This exceeds my hopes, George. You''ve done exceptional work."


    He continued, "Nearly two hundred others have come¡ªdisplaced nobles, scholars, and laborers seeking refuge and purpose. The situation in the capital grows dire, and the promise of stability in the Morea is a beacon for many."


    I surveyed the faces in the crowd¡ªsome weary, others hopeful. Children clung to their mothers'' skirts, wide-eyed and curious. Men stood protectively by their families, gazes reflecting uncertainty and determination.


    "These people will find a home here," I declared. "We shall make the Morea a place of prosperity and safety for all who dwell within its borders."


    A murmur of relief and gratitude rippled through those nearby. George gestured toward a stout man with soot-stained hands. "Despot, allow me to introduce Elias, a master bell maker renowned in the capital."


    Elias bowed deeply. "At your service, Despot. I''ve heard of your plans and am eager to contribute."


    I clasped his forearm in a gesture of camaraderie. "Your skills will be invaluable, Elias. We have a lot of need for talented hands like yours."


    Theophilus stepped forward once more. "Despot, I have also brought texts and manuscripts from the remnants of the imperial library."


    "Excellent," I replied, envisioning the wealth of information those works could contain. "Your contributions are most welcome."


    As we moved toward the castle entrance, the sun dipping lower on the horizon, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The obstacles ahead were formidable, but with these new resources¡ªboth human and material¡ªthe path to strengthening the Morea seemed more attainable.


    "George," I said quietly as we walked, "did you encounter any difficulties on your journey?"


    He nodded solemnly. "There were challenges. Pirates in the sea, and tensions in the capital are high. The Ottomans press closer each day."


    A shadow passed over my thoughts. The urgency of our mission weighed heavily upon me. "We must accelerate our efforts," I asserted. "Time is not a luxury we possess."


    "Agreed," George replied. "I shall begin organizing the craftsmen immediately."


    "Good. And Theophilus," I added, turning to the scholar, "we will convene soon to discuss how best to utilize the knowledge you''ve brought."


    He inclined his head. "As you wish, Despot."


    Before we could proceed further, a familiar figure approached¡ªTheodora, her gown flowing gracefully as she walked. Her eyes met mine, reflecting warmth and quiet strength.


    "Constantine," she greeted softly. "I heard of George''s return. It''s wonderful news."


    "Indeed," I replied, taking her hands gently. "His journey was a success beyond measure."


    She smiled, a hint of relief in her expression. "This will bolster our efforts."


    Noticing the subtle shadows under her eyes, I felt a pang of concern. "Are you feeling well?" I asked quietly.


    She nodded. "Just a bit tired, but nothing to worry over."


    I squeezed her hands lightly. "Remember to rest. The welfare of you and our child is paramount."


    A soft blush colored her cheeks. "I promise I will."


    Turning back to George and Theophilus, I addressed them with renewed determination. "There is much to be done, but tonight, we shall rest and welcome our new companions. Tomorrow, we forge ahead."


    They both nodded, understanding the significance of this convergence of events.


    As evening settled in, the castle came alive with activity. Fires were lit, meals prepared, and the newcomers began to settle. The air was filled with a sense of cautious optimism¡ªa stark contrast to the uncertainty that had loomed for so long.


    I stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, watching as people found places to sit, sharing food and stories. Laughter mingled with the crackling of flames, and children chased one another under the watchful eyes of their parents.


    Theodora joined me, slipping her arm through mine. "Look at them," she said softly. "Perhaps this is the beginning of something new."


    "Indeed," I agreed, my gaze sweeping over the scene. "A foundation upon which we can build a future."


    She rested her head on my shoulder. "I have faith in you, in us."


    Her words warmed me. "Together, we will shape the destiny of this land."


    She looked up at me, her eyes reflecting the flickering light. "I wanted to tell you¡ªI''ve received a letter from my brother."


    "Carlo?" I inquired. "What news does he bring?"


    She hesitated briefly. "He writes of concerns in Epirus. Tensions with neighboring lords and whispers of Ottoman movements. He... also inquires about the prospects of an alliance."


    I considered her words carefully. "An alliance could be beneficial, but we must tread cautiously. The political landscape is delicate."


    She nodded. "I thought as much. I will draft a reply, but I wanted your counsel."


    "Your wisdom is invaluable, Theodora," I assured her. "We will discuss it further and decide the best course of action."


    A comfortable silence settled between us as we watched the festivities below. The challenges ahead were numerous, but with allies by my side and a vision for the future, I felt a steadfast resolve.


    We will rise to meet the trials before us, I vowed silently. For the sake of all who look to us, and for the generations yet to come.

 Chapter 11: The First Page of History

    Glarentza, May 1429


    By the warm glow of the forge, Michael watched as molten metal filled the intricate molds. The scent of hot metal and charcoal hung thick in the air. Beside him, Demetrios, a master goldsmith from Constantinople, wiped the sweat from his brow. He turned a tiny metal letter over in his fingers, his eyes filled with wonder.


    "I''ve never crafted such precise and delicate pieces before," Demetrios said, shaking his head.


    Michael smiled faintly. "Each letter is a building block of knowledge. Together, they can move nations."


    Demetrios examined the letter again. "Such simplicity holds profound potential. Your vision is remarkable, my lord."


    "It''s not my vision alone, Master Demetrios," Michael replied modestly. "Without your skill and dedication, none of this would be possible."


    Demetrios bowed his head slightly. "It''s an honor to be part of this endeavor."


    ---


    A few weeks later, in the bustling workshop of the newly established printing press, rows of freshly cast type glinted under the soft glow of candlelight. The air buzzed with anticipation as the team assembled the first page. Monks in simple robes moved carefully among the equipment, their practiced hands arranging the type with reverence.


    Michael noticed Theophilus Dragas watching the monks, his gaze settling on a young monk fumbling with a piece of type.


    "Mind your placement, Brother Manuel," Theophilus advised gently. "If the letters aren''t aligned, the words won''t read true."


    The monk flushed slightly. "Apologies, Master Dragas. I''ll be more careful."


    Michael observed the exchange across the room, appreciating Theophilus''s patience and attention to detail. Stepping forward, he addressed the gathered team. "We stand on the brink of a new era," he said, his voice carrying quiet fervor. "Each of you plays a vital role in bringing knowledge to those who seek it. Let''s proceed with care and dedication."


    He carefully applied ink to the type and positioned the paper. Taking a deep breath, he operated the press. The wooden frame groaned softly as the screw turned, pressing the paper onto the inked type. A hush fell over the room. As he lifted the platen and gently peeled back the paper, a flawless page of text revealed itself, the ink glistening as it caught the light.


    For a moment, silence reigned. Then, a wave of exhilaration swept through the room.


    "By God''s grace, we''ve done it!" one of the monks exclaimed, breaking the silence.


    Cheers erupted around him. Michael felt his heart race as the printing press produced its first flawless page. The monks gathered closely, staring in awe at the inked text, the letters crisp and perfect.


    He gently picked up the page, his fingers trembling slightly as he held the smooth, crisp parchment. His eyes reflected the flickering candlelight, but his thoughts drifted far from the workshop in Morea. This is just the beginning, he thought, feeling the weight of history in his hands.


    For a brief moment, the noise of the bustling workshop faded. He was no longer Despot Constantine Palaiologos in 1429, but Michael Jameston, a university student once again. He could almost see the cluttered table in the basement of his dormitory¡ªthe scattered notes, blueprints, and half-finished circuits for his DIY project with his engineering classmates.


    He remembered it was supposed to be a simple challenge¡ªa homemade printing press for a student fair. It was just something to showcase the mechanics of movable type¡ªnothing groundbreaking, but they wanted to see how it worked, how ink met paper in precise alignment to spread knowledge like wildfire.


    He could still picture the grease-stained hands of his friend Greg, always wearing an old band T-shirt and tinkering with anything mechanical. "You handle the design, Mike. I''ll handle the build," Greg had said, hunched over, adjusting the screws and levers of the prototype they''d cobbled together from scrap metal and a few scavenged parts from the university workshop.


    In those days, the project had been a fun experiment, a challenge meant to impress professors at the student fair. It was nothing compared to creating the first functional printing press in Morea, a world that didn''t even know the name Gutenberg yet.


    Gutenberg... Michael let the name echo in his mind. He had studied the man who would soon be credited with revolutionizing Europe by perfecting the printing press. He had admired Gutenberg''s role in bringing mass communication to the world and the enormous cultural shift that followed. Michael had read so many books about how Gutenberg''s press had sparked the Reformation, how it had made knowledge accessible, and how it had changed Europe forever.


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    And here he was now, standing at the edge of that exact moment in history¡ªnot as a student, not as a casual hobbyist¡ªbut as a despot of the Byzantine Empire, bringing this monumental invention to life before it was meant to exist.


    What would Greg say if he saw me now? Michael wondered. Not just fooling around in a basement for fun, but actually crafting the first press. I''m not in the shadow of history¡ªI''m rewriting it. Gutenberg isn''t even on the horizon yet, and here I am, making this happen, not in Mainz, but in Morea.


    He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his role in this historical turning point. Every letter, every word, was about to change the world, just as it did when the first printed texts flooded Europe. But now, it was happening here¡ªearlier than it should, in this small corner of Byzantium, where a man who shouldn''t even be here was trying to change the course of history.


    Michael stared down at the flawlessly printed page in his hands. The ink was drying evenly, the letters sharp against the parchment. A year ago, he was just a middle-aged guy in New York, playing with silkscreen printing for fun. And now, he''d just held the first page from the first printing press in the world. If only Yaya could see me now. She always told me Byzantium''s destiny wasn''t over.


    He took a deep breath, his chest tightening with a mix of excitement and anxiety. This is no longer a student project. This is real. This is power. Every word printed will travel far beyond these walls, into the hands of monks, scholars, and traders. And who knows what will come next? Will it bring peace between the churches? Or will it cause chaos?


    He glanced up at the gathered monks and artisans, who were still staring at the press in reverent silence, their eyes wide with wonder.


    "This is just the beginning," Michael said, his voice steady but filled with emotion. But deep down, he knew it wasn''t just about the press or the words on the page. This was about what came next¡ªthe shift in power, the transformation of a society, the choices that could lead Byzantium into a future it had never known.


    With that thought, Michael allowed himself one more glance at the flawless page, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He wasn''t just living history anymore. He was creating it.


    ---


    The establishment of the first printing press in Morea in 1429 was a monumental achievement. The "Morea Publishing Company" became the world''s first publishing house. Under Michael''s patronage, a diverse team had come together: nine skilled metalworkers from Constantinople¡ªincluding two goldsmiths and three silversmiths¡ªfour scholarly monks, and a master carpenter. Theophilus Dragas, known for his meticulous attention to detail, was the perfect choice to oversee the operation. His familial ties had earned him Michael''s trust, but it was his unwavering dedication that solidified his place in the endeavor.


    Before the presses were even built, Theophilus traveled through the monasteries of the Morea, seeking monks who were not only skilled in scripture but also aligned with a vision of change. His mission led him to the Monastery of St. Nicholas, a place known for its quiet endorsement of the controversial idea of church unification¡ªa potential bridge between the Orthodox and Catholic faiths.


    As he entered the stone courtyard, the faint echoes of chanting reverberated through the hallways. The abbot, a lean figure with thoughtful eyes, greeted him with a slight bow.


    "Brother Dragas," the abbot said warmly. "It''s an honor to receive you. I assume this visit is related to the emperor''s ongoing efforts?"


    Theophilus returned the bow. "It is, Father. I''m overseeing a project under the patronage of Despot Constantine, one that could further the cause of unity between the Eastern and Western churches. We aim to produce a Latin Bible¡ªin multiple copies¡ªso it can aid in the ongoing talks. However, I need men who not only possess the skill to handle the written word but also share the vision of bringing the Orthodox and Catholic churches closer together."


    The abbot''s brow furrowed in thought. "A Latin Bible, you say? A bold move, Brother Dragas. Our monastery has long supported the emperor''s efforts to unite the faiths, but not all agree. However, this could be a powerful symbol, especially for those in the West who question our willingness to meet them halfway."


    Leaning in slightly, Theophilus lowered his voice. "We''re constructing a printing press¡ªa device that will allow us to replicate texts faster than ever imagined. Imagine producing dozens of copies of the Holy Scriptures¡ªperfect in every detail¡ªin just a few weeks. But we must act quietly for now, as there are those who would see this innovation as a threat."


    The abbot crossed himself thoughtfully. "It is a dangerous path you tread, but a necessary one. You''re right¡ªthere are many who would resist such changes. But if this project supports the emperor''s efforts to unify the faiths, we will assist. You seek men who can work discreetly yet with great skill?"


    Theophilus smiled faintly. "Exactly, Father. I need craftsmen of the written word but also believers in a greater cause. Men who understand that we will help bridge the gap between East and West by producing this Latin Bible. Such an endeavor could strengthen the emperor''s position in negotiations with the papacy."


    The abbot beckoned Theophilus to follow him into the dimly lit scriptorium, where monks sat hunched over their desks, meticulously copying sacred texts by hand. "I''ll introduce you to the ones I trust. Brother Manuel has transcribed the Gospels countless times, and his work has been praised even by those in the higher clergy. His precision is unmatched."


    Theophilus observed as Brother Manuel carefully inked the pages in front of him, his movements steady and deliberate. "He will be an asset," Theophilus said, nodding. "And the others?"


    The abbot led him to two younger monks, their focus unwavering as they worked. "Brothers Andronikos and Dionysios. They are loyal to the cause of unification and understand the importance of this task. Their devotion to the faith is absolute, and their work with scripture is exemplary."


    Theophilus took a moment to observe them, then turned to the abbot. "They will serve this mission well."


    The abbot paused, considering the weight of the task. "You understand that taking them from here is no small request, Brother Dragas. But I believe in the work you''re doing. This Latin Bible could be a gesture that unites more than just the church."


    Theophilus nodded solemnly. "I assure you, Father, that their work will not only serve the faith but may also help bring us closer to the long-desired union."

 Chapter 12: Wheels in Motion

    Clermont, May 1429


    In the newly established arsenal near Clermont Castle, George Sphrantzes gathered a small, handpicked group of trusted artisans and blacksmiths. The air was thick with the scent of burning charcoal, and the soft glow of molten metal flickered off the stone walls. These men had been carefully chosen for their skills, discretion, and, most importantly, their loyalty to the Despot.


    Many of the artisans had come from Constantinople, fleeing the constant Ottoman''s threat, and had been personally recruited by George for this secretive project. Elias, the renowned bellmaker, had worked on some of the finest church bells in the empire before the siege forced him southward. Others, like Markos, had been recruited from the local workshops in the Glarentza¡ªmen with reputations for precision in metalwork and the forging of ceremonial pieces. They all knew what was at stake: the creation of weapons that could decide the fate of the empire.


    But with such a critical task came the burden of secrecy. George glanced around the forge, his sharp gaze falling on each man. He was not a man to take chances. Unbeknownst to the artisans, George had placed several loyal servants¡ªspies, in truth¡ªamong the workers. These men, though they appeared to be ordinary servants carrying out routine tasks, were tasked with watching the artisans closely, tracking their movements, noting who they met and what they spoke of outside the arsenal.


    George had been clear: anyone caught leaking information would face swift and certain death.


    ¡°The work we do here,¡± George began, his voice low and firm, ¡°is vital to our survival. The Despot himself has entrusted us with this responsibility, and with that trust comes a price.¡± He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the group. ¡°None of you will speak of what happens here. Not to your families, not to your fellow tradesmen. What we build here must remain hidden until the time is right.¡±


    He took a step forward, his eyes narrowing. ¡°Understand this¡ªany man who betrays our work, who dares speak even a word to those outside these walls, will meet his end swiftly. There are eyes on each of you, and there will be no second chances.¡±


    The room fell silent. The artisans exchanged uneasy glances, but none spoke. Each man knew that George¡¯s threat was no idle one. Whispers of betrayal had been silenced before, quietly, and word had spread of how little patience George had for disloyalty.


    Nikolaos, standing by the anvil, finally broke the silence. He ran a hand over the rough surface of a bronze barrel, frowning. ¡°This bronze,¡± he murmured, ¡°it is too brittle. It cannot withstand the pressure required for a hand weapon. It may serve well enough for cannons, but for the smaller hand ones¡ªthis will not do.¡±


    ---


    By the end of June, the arsenal and the "Morea" Publishing Company, along with a new cotton fabric workshop and a couple of watermill-powered paper mills, were bustling with activity. Over four hundred people were employed across these enterprises, all under Michael''s diligent oversight. To manage these complex operations, he established a bureaucracy and logistics department staffed by twenty capable individuals, mostly learned monks.


    Economic strains, though, were inevitable with such rapid expansion. One afternoon, Michael sat hunched over a ledger, the numbers blurring before his eyes. He contemplated seeking a loan from his brother Thomas or foreign traders. The thought weighed heavily on him.


    Just then, a messenger arrived with a letter bearing a familiar seal. Michael''s heart tightened as he read the news: his father-in-law, Carlo I Tocco, had passed away, succeeded by his nephew, Carlo II Tocco.


    He set the letter down slowly, the implications swirling in his mind. The loss was personal, but it also carried political weight.


    "Are you alright, my Despot?¡± A servant asked softly, noticing the pallor of Michael''s face.


    Michael forced a nod. "Yes, just... need a moment¡±


    He rose and made his way to the balcony overlooking the village. The streets below seemed distant as he contemplated how to break the news to Theodora and what this change might mean for their alliances.


    ---


    Late July brought a turn of fortune. Michael''s efforts began to bear fruit. Cotton fabrics were successfully exported to the Republic of Ragusa, fetching higher prices than anticipated. At the same time, the paper produced by the mills¡ªexceptional for the era¡ªcaught the eye of a Venetian trader named Lorenzo, who was visiting Glarentza. He was so impressed by their quality that he even placed an additional order for the following year. The revenue from these deals and a loan from a Genoese trader helped sustain the enterprises in the following months.


    ---


    Stolen story; please report.


    By September''s end, the first copies of the Latin Bible emerged from the presses of "Morea" Publishing. The achievement was met with widespread acclaim¡ªit was a genuinely historic moment.


    Michael hosted a grand gathering in the hall of his castle to celebrate and promote this milestone, inviting traders from Venice and Genoa. The room was adorned with tapestries and lit by chandeliers, creating an atmosphere of both warmth and grandeur. Servants moved gracefully among the guests, offering fine wine and delicacies.


    As the traders examined the Bibles laid out on display tables, their fingers traced the crisp, uniform pages. The books were bound in quality leather and embossed with intricate designs.


    As Alessandro flipped through the pages, Michael noticed his eyes widen in surprise. ''Every page is identical in perfection,'' Alessandro remarked.


    Michael approached with a welcoming smile. "We have developed a new method¡ªprinting," he explained. "It allows us to produce books with unprecedented consistency and efficiency."


    Michael noticed Alessandro¡¯s eyes narrow as he flipped through the Bible. Nearby, a Genoese trader, Marco, joined them, cradling a Bible in his hands. ''The size of these volumes is remarkable,'' Marco said, running his fingers over the cover."


    Michael nodded. ¡°A smaller, more affordable Bible means that more people can own one."


    Marco looked up from the Bible, his brow furrowed slightly. ''You are not only a man of vision but of commerce, Despot Constantine. I would be interested in securing several copies for my patrons if the price is right.''


    Within a month, all sixty copies were sold at thirty gold ducats each, providing a much-needed influx of funds. The traders departed, marveling at the compact format of the books¡ªso different from the oversized, handcrafted volumes they were accustomed to. Word of the revolutionary printing method began to spread across the Mediterranean, hinting at the profound impact that was yet to come.


    ---


    Meanwhile, the arsenal focused on producing prototypes of muskets and cannons. It quickly became apparent that crafting a functional musket was far more challenging than anticipated. The intricate mechanisms required precision engineering and materials that strained their capabilities.


    In the foundry, George Sphrantzes stood with Elias and the blacksmith, Nikolaos, examining a prototype musket laid out on a workbench cluttered with tools and metal shavings.


    Elias shook his head as he gestured toward the musket. ¡°The touch hole is misaligned, and the barrel won''t withstand the pressure of the powder,¡± he said, his voice strained. ¡°These weapons could endanger us more than the enemy if we cannot ensure safety.¡±


    Nikolaos added, "Even if we solve these issues, the time and resources required to produce each hand weapon are prohibitive. We would need an army of artisans and blacksmiths.


    George rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps our efforts are better spent elsewhere. What progress have we made with the cannons?"


    Elias face brightened slightly. "The bronze casting techniques we adapted for the cannons yield better results. The latest cannon mold is ready for testing."


    George nodded. "Very well. Let us proceed with caution. We cannot afford more losses.


    After a couple of failed attempts¡ªtragically resulting in the deaths of two workers during testing¡ªthe first bronze cannon, named Drakos, was successfully cast and tested. The memory of the accidents weighed heavily on them, a stark reminder of the dangers inherent in their work.


    On the day of the test, Michael joined George and the artillery crew on a field outside Clermont. The cannon stood proudly on its custom two-wheeled cart, its bronze surface gleaming in the sunlight. A crew of three stood ready.


    George approached Michael, his expression somber. "We have taken every precaution, my Despot. The cannon has been tested thoroughly."


    Michael nodded. "Let us proceed."


    The crew loaded the nine-pounder with powder and shot, tamping it down carefully. They ignited the fuse, and everyone stepped back, holding their breath.


    A thunderous boom echoed across the field as Drakos roared to life. The cannonball soared through the air, striking the target with a resounding impact.


    Cheers erupted from the assembled workers. Michael felt a surge of triumph mixed with solemn respect for the power they had unleashed.


    Michael saw George turn to him, a rare smile crossing his usually somber face. It had been hard-won, the result of sleepless nights, failures, and the loss of lives.


    ''''A formidable weapon,'''' George said.


    "Indeed," Michael agreed. "It may very well tip the scales in battles to come.¡±


    George nodded gravely. "We shall continue to refine the design, ensuring reliability and safety."


    Michael placed a hand on George''s shoulder. "See to it that our men are well-trained in its use.¡±


    ---


    The influx of economic activity over the last year did not go unnoticed by the common folk. People slowly began to arrive in Glarentza and Andravida from the surrounding regions, drawn by the promise of steady work and the hope of a better life. The once-quiet streets now saw a constant flow of carts and foot traffic as merchants, laborers, and craftsmen mingled, sharing news and bartering goods.


    Even from the prosperous city of Patras, families made their way South, resettling on the outskirts of Glarentza. Over a hundred households now dotted the landscape where fields had once stood empty. Simple homes and modest workshops began to appear, the sounds of construction blending with the distant hum of the town¡¯s growing workshops. Farmers found new buyers for their produce as the demand for grain, wool, and timber increased with each passing week.


    The streets, though still modest compared to great cities like Constantinople, buzzed with a quiet energy. New workshops and small markets began to emerge, catering to the needs of the expanding population. Children ran through the narrow alleyways, and the scent of fresh bread and roasted meat wafted from makeshift stalls.


    It wasn¡¯t a transformation yet, but the unmistakable feeling of growth existed. The weight of uncertainty that had long hung over Glarentza and the whole of Elis region, seemed to lift just a little. Where once there had been despair, now there was work to be done, and for many, that was enough.


    From the balcony of his castle, Michael watched the activity below with a sense of guarded satisfaction. The foundations were laid, but the road ahead remained uncertain. Still, for the first time in a long while, there was a glimmer of something more¡ªa future that might hold promise if only they could keep pushing forward.

 Chapter 13: The Weight of Loss

    The castle was suffocatingly silent.


    In the early morning''s dim, cold light, Michael paced the stone corridor outside Theodora''s chamber. His footsteps echoed against the ancient walls, each creak of the wooden floorboards a stark reminder of the oppressive stillness. The chill seeped through his clothes, settling into his bones, and he pulled his cloak tighter around himself. He was far from the comforts of his 21st-century life¡ªa life that now felt like a distant dream. Here, death lurked like a shadow in every corner.


    He paused at the heavy oak door, pressing his ear against the rough wood. Muffled whispers, a stifled cry, the clatter of metal against metal¡ªeach sound tightened the knot in his stomach. Hours earlier, the midwife had barred him from entering, her eyes reflecting a mixture of respect and unwavering firmness


    Now, he waited, helpless.


    The silence was unbearable. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms until the pain grounded him. His hands¡ªrough and calloused, a warrior''s hands¡ªtrembled slightly. The absurdity of his situation gnawed at him. How had it come to this? A man armed with centuries of advanced knowledge, rendered powerless by the brutal realities of medieval life. They lacked even the most basic medical understanding that could save lives. He knew about antiseptics, germ theory, and procedures that could prevent complications. He had ordered the midwives and attendants to sterilize their hands, boil water, and cleanse the linens and instruments¡ªsimple measures that could be implemented even in this time. They had complied, albeit with puzzled expressions and whispered doubts about his peculiar directives. Yet, he was forced to stand idle as Theodora was taken away, her face pale, eyes wide with fear. Despite his efforts, he couldn''t shake the foreboding that settled in his gut.


    A faint creak jolted him from his thoughts. He turned sharply as the door inched open. One of the midwives stepped out, her face drawn and ashen, eyes red-rimmed from tears. The corridor seemed to close in around him, the silence heavy and foreboding.


    "Despot..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Theodora has passed, and... the child did not survive."


    The corridor tilted, and Michael felt as if the ground had vanished beneath him for a moment. He stared at her, uncomprehending.


    "No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "No, that can''t be."


    "I''m so sorry," she whispered.


    The midwife''s gaze fell to the floor, a solitary tear tracing down her cheek. "It was God''s will, my despot. She is at peace now."


    "God''s will." The phrase ignited a firestorm of anger and despair within him. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he struggled to contain the surge of emotion. How could they accept this so passively? With all his knowledge and precautions, he could not prevent this tragedy. Theodora was dead. Their child was dead. And he was expected to accept it as a divine decree?


    He pushed past the midwife, the weight of grief propelling him into the chamber¡ªthe scent of beeswax candles and lingering traces of herbal remedies hung in the air. The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing along the stone walls.


    His gaze fell upon Theodora. She lay upon the bed, her face serene, almost as if she were merely sleeping. Dark strands of hair framed her delicate features, spilling over the pillow like a raven''s wing. Her hands were clasped gently over her chest, fingers entwined. Beside her, swathed in linen, was the still form of their daughter.


    Michael¡¯s gaze fell on the small, swaddled form beside Theodora. Their daughter. A life that had never truly begun.


    The child had represented more than just hope for him¡ªit had been a symbol of their future, the bridge between his modern knowledge and this medieval world. With Theodora, he had allowed himself to imagine a future for their family, where their child would grow up in a world he had helped transform, a world where such tragedies were not inevitable. He had seen a future where their daughter might never know the hardships of this time¡ªthe suffering, the early deaths, the fear of illness and war.


    But now, that future had been stolen from him. From them both.


    He reached out and gently touched the linen-wrapped child. So small. So fragile. How had he been so powerless to save them? He had thought he could change everything. But he couldn¡¯t save the two lives that mattered most.


    A soft sob escaped him as he approached. The world blurred, his vision clouded by tears he hadn''t realized were forming. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Theodora''s. Her skin was cold, the warmth of life extinguished.


    As Michael knelt beside Theodora¡¯s still form, memories surged, sharp and relentless. It wasn¡¯t just her death that haunted him¡ªit was the quiet moments, the ones that had drawn them closer over the last year.


    In the beginning, their marriage had been necessary, a union born out of political alliance rather than love, even as Michael and not Constantine. But over time, things had changed. In the last year, they had bonded in ways he hadn¡¯t anticipated. With her sharp wit and fierce loyalty, Theodora had become his confidante, his partner. She had understood him in ways few others could, and her support was constant in the chaos surrounding them.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    He thought of the nights they would sit together in the gardens long after the rest of the castle had fallen silent. She had always been curious about him, questioning the oddness in his ideas, the way he spoke of the future as if it were something tangible, already written.


    There were moments¡ªbrief, fleeting¡ªwhen he had thought about telling her the truth. About the 21st century, about who he really was, and how he had come to be here. He had wondered, countless times, if she would believe him, if she could understand the weight of the knowledge he carried. But he had held back every time, fearing how it might change things. Would she still have loved him if she knew?


    Now, that chance was gone forever. He had kept his secret, and she had died, never knowing the man she had truly loved. The thought gnawed at him, twisting the knife of grief even deeper.


    "I''m so sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. Memories flooded his mind¡ªthe way she laughed, the warmth of her smile, the hope they had shared for their future¡ªmoments that now felt like lifetimes ago.


    A faint rustle sounded behind him. He turned to see a priest standing solemnly at the doorway, clad in dark robes, a silver cross gleaming against his chest. His eyes held a sorrowful understanding.


    "She is with God now, Despot," the priest said softly, stepping into the room. "Her suffering has ended. She has found eternal peace."


    Michael''s jaw tightened. The urge to shout, to scream at the injustice, welled up within him. Peace? What peace was there in a world that stole away the innocent? But he knew his words would fall on deaf ears. In this time, faith was an unassailable fortress against reason.


    "Yes," he managed to utter, his voice hollow. "God''s will."


    The priest approached, placing a gentle hand on Michael''s shoulder. "We must find solace in His plan. Through our trials, we are brought closer to the divine."


    Michael nodded mechanically, the priest''s words washing over him without meaning. His gaze drifted back to Theodora. I failed you.


    After offering a quiet prayer, the priest withdrew, leaving Michael alone with his grief. The door closed with a soft click, the finality of the sound echoing in the silent chamber.


    He sank to his knees beside the bed, the cold stone floor biting through his clothes. The weight of his isolation pressed down upon him. He was still a stranger in this world, burdened with knowledge that set him apart yet rendered him powerless in the face of such loss.


    He thought of his grandmother''s stories¡ªthe legends of Byzantium, the fall of empires, the myths of the Marmaromenos Vasilias, the Marble Emperor destined to awaken and restore glory. He had cherished those tales, the way they bridged his modern life with the echoes of the past. But now, they felt like cruel mockeries.


    A memory surfaced¡ªTheodora laughing in the garden, the sunlight catching in her hair as she playfully scolded him for his clumsy attempts at handling a medieval sword. "You may have the mind of a scholar, but you wield a blade like a farmer swatting flies," she had teased. Her eyes had sparkled with mirth, a shared moment of joy amidst the uncertainty of their lives.


    The recollection tore at him. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Why couldn''t I save you? He had been so focused on grand plans¡ªintroducing printing presses, revolutionizing warfare, and altering history. He even tried implementing simple medical practices to safeguard those he cared about. But despite his efforts, he had overlooked the fragility of life in this era. Theodora had been his anchor, his connection to this time, and now she was gone.


    He stood slowly, the numbness giving way to a cold resolve. Moving to the window, he pushed open the shutters. The crisp morning air rushed in, carrying the scents of dew-laden grass and distant woodsmoke. The horizon was tinged with dawn''s first shades, pink and gold strokes piercing the darkness.


    A sob escaped him. "I should have told you," he whispered. "I should have told you everything."


    Wiping his eyes, he moved back to the bed. Resolve hardened within him. If he couldn''t save them, he would honor them by changing this world¡ªby dragging it into a future where such tragedies were preventable.


    He leaned over, and kissed Theodora''s forehead. "I promise you," he said softly, "I will make a difference."


    As he left the chamber, the first light of dawn broke over the horizon. The castle was beginning to stir, unaware of the storm brewing within him.

 Chapter 14: Whispers in Mystras

    Theodore II Palaiologos sat in the dimly lit chamber of his palace in Mystras, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the stone floor. His hands rested on the arms of the intricately carved chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically as he stared at the missive before him. The wax seal had already been broken, but the contents gnawed at him still. He had read it several times, but each reading only deepened the knot of resentment in his chest.


    It had been just a few weeks since word arrived of the death of his brother Constantine¡¯s wife, Theodora. Theodore had felt a fleeting pang of sympathy for his younger brother¡ªsuch loss was inevitable in these times, though the sting never dulled. But this was not what weighed on him now.


    No, what truly unsettled him was the news that followed.


    A monk from Glarentza had passed through Mystras, bearing disturbing reports¡ªrumors that Constantine had been seen commissioning Latin Bibles, of all things. Theodore¡¯s brow furrowed as the words of the letter burned in his mind: Catholic Bibles, printed with some unnatural device¡ªan orange machine that sounded like some abomination from a foreign land. The idea was almost too absurd to contemplate, but if there was even a shred of truth to it¡­


    His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Alexios, one of his most trusted advisors. The aging man entered quietly, bowing deeply before approaching Theodore with the air of one who bore troubling news.


    "My lord," Alexios began, his voice steady but grave, "there are fresh reports from Glarentza."


    Theodore leaned forward, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "Speak."


    Alexios took a measured breath. "The news we received earlier about Despot Constantine''s activities appears to be accurate. More details have emerged from the monks. They claim he is producing Catholic Bibles¡ªin Latin¡ªusing some strange contraption."


    Theodore''s fingers drummed impatiently on the armrest. "A contraption?"


    "Yes, my lord. They describe it as an ingenious device, akin to a wine press but designed to imprint entire pages swiftly and repeatedly. It''s unlike anything they''ve seen."


    Theodore''s gaze drifted momentarily to the window, where the fading sunlight cast long shadows across the city. He could almost hear the distant clamor of Glarentza''s bustling workshops, the rhythmic thud of machinery disrupting the sacred silence.


    Alexios continued, "This machine allows him to produce books in quantities unheard of, bypassing the painstaking work of scribes."


    A chill settled over Theodore.. He had already suspected that Constantine was meddling in dangerous affairs, but this went beyond mere rumor. "And the Church?" he asked, his voice a quiet growl. "What of the Church?"


    "The monks who witnessed these things have spoken of blasphemy, my lord," Alexios continued, his tone growing darker. "To produce the holy scriptures in Latin, and in such a manner¡­ it undermines our faith, our traditions. This is nothing short of an affront to the Orthodox Church."


    Theodore rose from his seat, the aged wooden floor creaking beneath his boots as he paced the length of the chamber. His rich, burgundy robes whispered against the cold stone, echoing the turmoil within. The scent of melting wax and aged parchment filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of incense lingering from the morning prayers.


    Blasphemy. The word pulsated in his mind, each syllable hammering like a drumbeat. The flickering flames of the wall-mounted torches cast dancing shadows, their light playing across tapestries depicting the glorious battles of their ancestors¡ªa stark contrast to the insidious threats he now faced.


    Ever since Constantine had embarked on his ventures in Glarentza¡ª entangling himself with smooth-talking foreign traders¡ªTheodore''s unease had grown like a dark cloud. But this... producing Catholic Bibles? It was not just a line crossed; it was a dagger thrust into the heart of their traditions.


    He paused by a narrow window, the cool evening breeze brushing his face. Below, the city of Mystras sprawled under the twilight, its terracotta roofs glowing softly. The distant bells of a monastery tolled, their melancholic tones weaving through the silence. Yet, even this serene vista offered no comfort.


    That crossed a line.


    "You know my views on the unification of the churches, Alexios," Theodore said, stopping abruptly. "I have made them clear. I will not tolerate any effort that brings the heretics of Rome into our sacred fold. We are Orthodox, and we remain so. To mix with them is to spit on the sacrifices of our ancestors."


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    "Indeed, my lord," Alexios agreed, his face betraying no emotion. "But there is more. It appears that your brother is using these Bibles for political leverage. Word from the monks is that Constantine has been distributing these works to foreign traders, Venetian and Genoese, gaining favor in their courts. It is said that the Latin Church has already taken note of his efforts. They see him as¡­ sympathetic to their cause of unification."


    Theodore stopped pacing, his fists clenched. "Of course," he spat. "Of course, Constantine would do this. He has always sought to curry favor¡ªespecially with our brother, the Emperor."


    The mention of John VIII, their elder brother, struck Theodore like a blow to the chest. Memories of his mother, Helena Dragas, flooded his mind¡ªher proud gaze whenever John entered the room, the way her eyes lit up at Constantine''s every word. She had always looked upon them as the heirs of greatness, the sons who would shape the future of the empire. And Theodore? He was the shadow that trailed behind them, the dutiful governor expected to support but never to lead.


    He recalled a winter evening years ago, standing in the cold corridors of the palace while his mother and brothers warmed themselves by the grand hearth. He had approached them, eager to share news of a successful negotiation with a local governor. But Helena had barely acknowledged him, her attention fixed on John''s tales of imperial court intrigues. The sting of that dismissal had never left him.


    A knot tightened in his throat. Despite all his efforts, all his sacrifices for the realm, he remained unseen in his mother''s eyes¡ªa mere steward of the periphery, not a son of destiny.


    But this? This was more than a simple rivalry. If Constantine was positioning himself as a champion of the unification of the churches, it would not only win him favor with John but undermine Theodore¡¯s own standing.


    Your Grace," Alexios interjected softly, pulling Theodore from his reverie, "there is another matter that requires your attention¡ªyour brother''s debts."


    "Debts?" Theodore''s brow arched, a glint of curiosity mingling with disdain.


    Alexios nodded solemnly. "Indeed. Constantine has secured substantial loans from the Genoese merchants. He has poured fortunes into his workshops, his sprawling paper mills, and this ambitious publishing endeavor. Whispers suggest his obligations far exceed his means to repay."


    For a moment, Theodore was silent. Then, a mirthless smile curved his lips. "So, the illustrious Constantine, finds himself ensnared by his own ambitions. He plays the grand ruler, yet stands on the precipice of ruin."


    He walked towards the hearth, the warmth of the fire failing to thaw the chill settling within him. The flames cast a golden hue on his stern features. "I remember when we were children," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Constantine would spin tales of conquering distant lands, of forging alliances with exotic kings. Mother would listen with rapt attention, her eyes filled with pride. Meanwhile, she tasked me with tending to the mundane¡ªmanaging estates, studying law, upholding traditions."


    He turned to face Alexios, his eyes reflecting a blend of bitterness and resolve. "Perhaps it is fitting that his lofty dreams now tether him to the very traders who would see our empire carved up for their gain.


    "Indeed," Alexios said. "And yet, despite this, he continues to expand his influence. There are whispers that Constantine is using the Catholic Bibles not just to appease foreign traders, but to gain political leverage with our brother. He seeks to use these works to secure John¡¯s approval, to present himself as an ally of the Church and a man of modernity, one who is willing to embrace change."


    "Modernity," Theodore muttered, the word laced with disdain. "All this talk of innovation, of progress. My brother is a fool. He thinks he can straddle both worlds¡ªthe world of Orthodoxy and the world of heresy¡ªand in doing so, he will bring ruin upon us all."


    Alexios hesitated before speaking again. "Constantine''s actions seem not merely a matter of innovation, my lord. He is positioning himself to weaken your influence. The monks in Glarentza say that he is gaining the support of John, presenting himself as a visionary, while you¡­ well, your opposition to the unification may soon paint you as the one standing in the way of progress."


    Theodore turned, his eyes flashing with anger. "Do you take me for a fool, Alexios? I see it all clearly now. This is not just about books or Bibles. This is about power. Constantine is trying to make me irrelevant in the eyes of the Emperor. He knows where our mother¡¯s favor lies. He knows how John looks to him for advice. He seeks to paint me as the backward brother, the one clinging to the past."


    He stepped toward the window, his gaze hardening as he looked out over the hills of Mystras. "But he will not succeed."


    "Theodore¡ª" Alexios began, but the Despot raised a hand, silencing him.


    "Enough. I will not let Constantine, nor any other, undermine me. He may think his books and his devices will win the future, but he forgets one thing: the people, the Church, they are not as eager for change as he believes. There is power in tradition, in faith, and I will wield it to stop him."


    Alexios bowed his head. "What shall we do, my lord?"


    He turned to Alexios, a steely determination settling over his features. "Constantine may bask in Mother''s favor," he said quietly, a hint of old wounds surfacing in his tone. "He may dazzle others with his schemes and his grasping at the new. But he forgets¡ªor perhaps chooses to ignore¡ªthat true power is not rooted in fleeting innovations. It is forged in the bonds of influence, the steadfastness of loyalty, and the unyielding defense of all we hold sacred."


    Theodore''s gaze drifted upward to a faded tapestry depicting the triumphs of their forebears, warriors who had safeguarded their heritage with blood and sacrifice. "He seeks to remake the world in his image," he murmured. A shadow crossed his face, a mixture of sorrow and resolve. "But he underestimates the world¡ªand me."


    His eyes met Alexios''s, filled with a cold fire. "If he insists on walking this perilous path, then he must be prepared to face the consequences. I have stood in the shadows long enough, watching as others gambled with our legacy. No more."

 News/Events Around the Area, 1429 AD

    Siege of Thessalonica:


    In early March 1429, an Ottoman fleet appeared before Thessalonica, capturing two Venetian vessels. Venice, already spending fifty thousand ducats per year on this seemingly futile conflict, was hesitant to commit more resources to the city, which lay dangerously close to Ottoman power. At the same time, Venice was also engaged in a conflict with the Duchy of Milan over control of northern Italy, making it reluctant to declare war on the Ottomans. However, the situation escalated as the Ottoman naval threat grew, with Genoese support from Chios and Lesbos. On March 29, 1429, the Great Council officially declared war against the Sultan, ordering more ships to join their fleet.


    By June, Venice struggled to find leadership willing to take on the dangerous role of defending Thessalonica. On July 1, Mocenigo launched an attack on Ottoman ships at Gallipoli, but despite his bravery, his fleet suffered heavy casualties due to a lack of support from the other Venetian vessels. Venice remained reluctant to fully engage in the conflict, and efforts to form alliances with regional powers, including Ibrahim II of Karaman and Shah Rukh, Timur¡¯s son, were pursued. However, by the end of 1429, Shah Rukh had withdrawn to Azerbaijan, and the Ottomans remained a pressing threat.


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    Epirus:


    In July 1429, Carlo II succeeded his uncle Carlo I in all his titles, but his succession was contested by Carlo I''s illegitimate sons, led by Memnone, creating further political unrest in the region.

 Chapter 15: The Weight of Survival

    The stench was unbearable, clinging to the thick, damp air like a suffocating cloak. Despite the scented incense burning in the corner and the servants'' diligent scrubbing, the odor of human filth lingered, seeping into the very stones of the chamber. Michael sat on the edge of the bed, his hands limp on his knees, staring vacantly at the floor.


    His wife¡¯s death had left a hollow, aching void inside him. Buried only days ago, her pale face haunted him. The memory of their stillborn child¡ªsilent before she ever took a breath¡ªgnawed at him every moment. He had wanted to save them both but had been powerless.


    Now the world seemed smaller, darker. The filth, the grime¡ªit repulsed him. He had thought he could adapt, and he was, to this world that wasn¡¯t his, but since her death, everything had become unbearable.


    A faint creak sliced through his reverie. Michael glanced up as the door inched open. Lukas, a young servant, stepped in, head bowed, cradling the all-too-familiar chamber pot. The sight of it tightened the knot in Michael''s stomach. Another day, the same wretched routine.


    "Just take it and go," Michael muttered, his voice hoarse. His head pounded with relentless grief and exhaustion.


    Lukas, moved quickly, but in his haste, his foot caught the edge of the rug. The chamber pot slipped from his hands, crashing to the floor. The contents spilled out, soaking into the cracks between the stones, the pungent odor intensifying despite the sweet incense.


    For a moment, the world froze.


    Michael stared at the mess, the smell wrapping around him, squeezing his chest. His heart hammered. The image of his wife''s final moments surged forward¡ªher labored breaths, the life fading from her eyes. The helplessness engulfed him anew.


    "Goddamn it!" he roared, jumping to his feet. Lukas flinched, scrambling back, his face pale.


    "My lord, I¡ªI¡¯m sorry, please¡ª"


    "Shut up!" Michael spat, stepping toward him. His voice trembled with grief and boiling disgust. The stench filled his nostrils, making him feel as though the world was rotting around him.


    Lukas dropped to his knees, fingers trembling as he tried to gather the mess with his bare hands. The sight of him, groveling in the filth, twisted something deep within Michael¡ªa mix of revulsion and a haunting reflection of his own helplessness.


    Michael''s hand shot out before he could stop himself. He struck Lukas across the face, the blow echoing in the stone chamber. The boy gasped, collapsing to the floor, clutching his cheek.


    A wave of guilt crashed over him. This boy wasn''t to blame. The filth, the relentless stench¡ªit wasn''t his doing. But the chasm left by his wife''s death consumed everything. It was too much.


    "You filthy little..." he muttered bitterly. Lukas lay on the floor, shaking with fear.


    Silence filled the room. Michael stared at him, his palm stinging from the blow. What am I doing?


    He hadn''t meant to lash out. The grief, the loss¡ªit was consuming him.


    Michael''s hand fell to his side. "Get up," he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion. He turned away, gazing out the window at the rolling hills of the Morea under a canopy of storm-laden clouds. "Clean it up. And get out."


    Lukas scrambled to his feet, quickly gathering the soiled pot and mopping up the mess. The rustling of cloth and clatter of pottery intensified the ache within Michael.


    The stench lingered¡ªa sharp reminder of the filth consuming his life. But it wasn''t the smell that haunted him now.


    It was the cold realization that he was changing. The grief, the relentless loss, the unyielding squalor¡ªthis world¡ª they were molding him into someone else.


    Someone darker.


    Someone crueler.


    Clermont, February 1430


    Michael stood at the window, his breath fogging the glass as he stared out over the snow-dusted hills of the Morea. The winter had been long and bitter, not only in weather but in his soul. The pain of losing Theodora still gnawed at him, a hollow ache that refused to fade, like a wound that would not heal. He missed her, but he also missed the life he had left behind¡ªNew York, his sons, the easy comfort of modernity.


    His only solace came from the work. In the months since Theodora''s death, Michael had thrown himself into his projects with relentless energy¡ªthe printing press and the arsenal. They were his distractions, his anchor in a world that often felt alien. The first printing press was no longer just a marvel; it had become the cornerstone of his plans to change the course of history. The arsenal was growing too, with a new bigger furnace recently completed and a fresh batch of cannon¡ªDrakos models¡ªstanding ready. Yet, there was always more to be done, and the pressures of ruling weighed heavily on his shoulders.


    A knock sounded at the door, pulling him from his thoughts.


    "Enter," Michael called, his voice hoarse.


    George Sphrantzes stepped into the room, his presence as steady and reliable as ever. "Despot," he began, his tone soft but firm, "the council meeting is later this morning. I thought I might find you here before we convene."


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    Michael gave a weary nod but remained by the window, his back to George. "I know. I¡¯ll be there."


    George moved closer, standing beside him. For a moment, the two men looked out at the snowy landscape in silence. Then George spoke again, carefully choosing his words. "I understand how hard these past months have been for you. Theodora¡¯s death has left a void in all of us, but none feel it more deeply than you."


    Michael clenched his fists, feeling the tightness in his chest that always accompanied thoughts of Theodora. "It¡¯s not just her, George," he said quietly. "It¡¯s everything. I thought I could change things¡ªmake the empire stronger, more resilient. But every step forward feels like we''re barely keeping our heads above water."


    George nodded, his expression thoughtful. ¡°But lots have been done my Despot. The arsenal is growing, and so is your printing press. The new furnace is complete, and the larger space you¡¯ve asked for is already under construction. The men work tirelessly. Your vision is taking shape, even if it feels slow."


    "Slow..." Michael¡¯s voice trailed off


    George cleared his throat and added, "And there is one more issue, Despot. We¡¯ve received word from Ioannina. Carlo II succeeded his uncle Carlo I, but his position is being challenged by his illegitimate cousins, led by Memnone. They¡¯ve appealed to Sultan Murad II for help, and the Ottomans have sent a force under Sinan to support their claim."


    Michael¡¯s jaw tightened at the news. "And Theodora¡¯s death... "


    Michael then stared at the flickering flames, the enormity of their situation weighing on him. "For now, we focus on what we can control. Secure the traders, sell what we must. We¡¯ll deal with the Ottomans when we have to, but right now, our survival depends on our trade."


    Just then, a servant entered the room, carrying a small bundle of letters. "Despot, these arrived from Constantinople."


    Michael took the letters, recognizing the familiar seals. The first was from his mother, Helena Dragas, now residing in a monastery in the capital. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter, her comforting words filling the room as he read.


    "My son, I grieve with you for Theodora. No words can ease your pain, but know that I pray for her soul and for you. Grief is a burden we must all carry in this life, but in time, the weight will lessen. I am proud of all you have accomplished, and I know Theodora is watching over you from Heaven. Be strong, my son. The Empire needs you now more than ever. With love, your mother."


    Michael¡¯s hands trembled slightly as he folded the letter back. Though Helena Dragas was not really his mother, her words carried a warmth and comfort that he hadn''t realized he needed.


    The next letter bore the imperial seal of his brother, Emperor John VIII. Michael opened it cautiously, unsure of what to expect.


    "Brother, I am deeply saddened by the news of Theodora¡¯s passing. I know this loss weighs heavily upon you, and I share in your sorrow. I wanted to thank you personally for the Latin Bible you sent. It is a truly remarkable creation, and I believe it will aid in the unification of the churches, as we have long hoped. I plan to visit you in Glarentza when I can, to see this miraculous printing press you¡¯ve built. You have my gratitude, and my support, always."


    Michael set the letter down, mixed emotions swirling within him. His brother¡¯s words, while kind, were a reminder of the political weight that still rested on his shoulders. The unification of the churches¡ªan ambitious plan, but one fraught with danger. Not everyone supported the idea, and he knew his efforts with the Latin Bible had stirred resentment among traditionalists like his brother Theodore.


    "Good news?" George asked.


    Michael sighed. "John is pleased with the Latin Bible. He thinks it will help with the unification. He¡¯s even talking about visiting Glarentza to see the press for himself."


    George raised an eyebrow. "That could be...interesting."


    "Yes," Michael muttered. "Interesting is one way to put it."


    The Council Meeting


    Later that morning, Michael sat at the head of the large table in the council chamber. The room was sparsely lit, the fire casting long shadows across the stone walls. A large blackboard stood against one wall, a new addition to the meetings¡ªa simple yet effective tool for demonstrating the state of their logistics, their stockpiles, and their debts. White chalk lines crisscrossed the board, showing figures for resources, projections, and supply chains. It was a modern idea for a medieval world, but one that had quickly proven its worth.


    Around the table sat George Sphrantzes, Theophilus Dragas, Petros¡ªthe newly appointed steward¡ªand two senior officials. Their expressions reflected a mix of anticipation and concern as they prepared to address the pressing issues of the day.


    Petros, a young man in his mid-twenties, held a bundle of ledgers in his hands, his sharp eyes scanning the data before he spoke. "Despot, the heavy winter has dealt a severe blow to our cotton fields. Much of the crop has been damaged, and our paper production can¡¯t keep pace with the demand from the printing presses¡ªespecially now that we have four new presses in operation. If we can¡¯t secure more raw materials soon, we¡¯ll be forced to halt production."


    Theophilus added, "Moreover, the Venetians are expecting their paper order too. With much of our stockpiled paper used for printing Bibles, we''re at risk of failing both their demands and our own goals."


    Michael leaned forward, fingers drumming lightly on the table. "How many Bibles do we have ready, and what''s our projected stock when the traders arrive in spring?"


    Theophilus replied, "We currently have 400 Bibles and expect to reach around 600 by spring. Selling them to the Venetians and Genoese could generate enough gold to cover our debts and stabilize the treasury for several months."


    Petros rose from his seat and moved to the blackboard, quickly sketching out the figures. "Even if we price each Bible conservatively at twenty gold ducats, the revenue from the sale would more than cover our current debts. However," he paused, tapping the board with the chalk, "without addressing the paper shortage caused by the damaged cotton fields, this success will be short-lived."


    Michael¡¯s gaze swept over the figures on the board, weighing their options. "Our immediate priority is clear. We need to sell the Bibles to clear our debts and ensure the treasury can support us through the coming months. But we cannot overlook the paper shortage. Securing more cotton is vital for sustaining production, or the presses will grind to a halt."


    George exchanged a glance with Theophilus. "We have twelve cannons so far, but our bronze supplies are dwindling. Without more, the foundry''s output will slow. Our gunpowder situation is even more critical. We''ve nearly exhausted our supply, and without the means to produce it locally, our cannons will be useless."


    Michael''s expression hardened. "Becoming self-sufficient is crucial. After securing funds from the Bible sales, we''ll focus on obtaining more cotton, bronze, and establishing local gunpowder production. We cannot allow the presses or the foundry to stop."


    As the meeting drew to a close and the council members began to disperse, Michael lingered by the blackboard, his eyes tracing the lines and numbers. He felt a sense of focus returning¡ªa determination to push through the difficulties. They had come this far, and now they had a plan to ensure their efforts weren¡¯t wasted.


    Michael¡¯s thoughts drifted to the new steward, Petros. The young man had risen quickly through the ranks, thanks to his sharp mind and practical approach. Watching him work, Michael couldn¡¯t help but feel a pang of nostalgia. Petros reminded him of his own son¡ªJason¡ªnot in appearance, but in character. Both were driven by an unwavering dedication and a keen sense of responsibility, qualities that had always impressed Michael.

 Chapter 16: Trade Winds

    The first blush of dawn painted the horizon in hues of rose and gold as the sun began its ascent over Glarentza. The icy grasp of winter still lingered, its breath visible in the crisp morning air, but hints of warmth teased the senses, promising the renewal of spring. The scent of saltwater mingled with the earthy aroma of thawing soil, while the rhythmic creaking of ships at anchor filled the harbor with a melody of anticipation.


    The port was a hive of activity. Sailors shouted orders as they prepared their vessels for departure, ropes strained against moorings, and the fluttering sails of ships bore the proud banners of Venice and Genoa. The Lion of Saint Mark and the Cross of Saint George danced upon the breeze, symbols of maritime prowess and mercantile ambition.


    On the bustling docks, Venetian and Genoese traders moved with purposeful strides, their eyes alight with eagerness. Word had spread like wildfire across the Mediterranean: Glarentza was the source of a remarkable treasure¡ªthe Latin Bibles that had taken the markets of Venice and Genoa by storm. These books were not only religious texts but objects of unparalleled craftsmanship, their pages uniform and flawless, produced with a speed and consistency that bordered on the miraculous.


    The port of Glarentza had not witnessed such activity in many decades¡ªnot since the prosperous days of the Principality of Achaea. The harbor, which had grown quiet over the years, now saw a steady increase in ships arriving from various parts of the Mediterranean. The docks were busier than they had been in a long time, with more vessels than usual vying for docking space.


    Sailors carefully maneuvered their ships, occasionally waiting their turn to approach the piers. A few ships anchored just offshore, their crews ferrying goods and passengers to land in small boats. The harbor master oversaw the proceedings with a satisfied air, pleased to see the port again thriving.


    "Looks like Glarentza is regaining its old glory," remarked a seasoned local sailor to his companion as they secured their vessel. "It''s been decades since we''ve had this many ships in port."


    "Aye," his friend agreed. "The word about these Bibles has certainly stirred interest."


    The increased traffic brought a sense of renewed energy to the town. Dockworkers busily loaded and unloaded cargo, merchants haggled over prices, and the local taverns enjoyed brisk business. While not overwhelming, the influx signaled a positive shift in Glarentza''s fortunes.


    Amidst this revival, the Latin Bibles remained the prized commodity, drawing traders from Venice, Genoa, and beyond. The town had become a noteworthy destination in the world of commerce, its name once again appearing on the lips of merchants and sailors across the Mediterranean.


    Among the throng, Lorenzo navigated the familiar pathways of Glarentza with a renewed sense of purpose. The success of his last venture had exceeded all expectations, and he was determined to capitalize on the burgeoning demand for the Bibles. The profits could elevate his status within the Venetian trading community, but more importantly, they had ignited his curiosity.


    He felt a tap on his shoulder as he made his way through the bustling market. Turning, he saw Marco, a fellow Venetian trader, grinning broadly.


    "Marco! I didn''t expect to see you here so soon," Lorenzo exclaimed, warmly clasping his friend''s hand.


    "How could I stay away after hearing of your remarkable success?" Marco replied. "But there''s something you must see. They''ve started selling the Bibles in a new place¡ªa dedicated store they''ve built just for books."


    "A store just for books?" Lorenzo repeated, surprised. "That''s unprecedented.


    "Indeed it is. They call it a ''bookstore,'' and it''s unlike anything I''ve encountered. It''s near the port, not far from here."


    Lorenzo''s intrigue deepened. "Lead the way. I must see this for myself."


    They navigated through the crowds, the sounds of haggling merchants and clinking coins providing a lively backdrop. As they left the port, a new edifice came into view¡ªa structure that stood out amidst the traditional buildings of Glarentza.


    The building was simple yet impressive, with clean lines and a prominent fa?ade. Above the entrance, a large sign was boldly painted with the words "Morea publishing¡± in an elegant, stylized script unlike any Lorenzo had seen before. The lettering was captivating¡ªa sweeping ''M'' that seemed both simple and majestic. Below it, the words were inscribed in both Greek and Latin, further emphasizing its importance.


    Two sentries stood at either side of the entrance, their stances alert but welcoming. Their presence added an air of exclusivity and security to the establishment.


    "This is extraordinary," Lorenzo remarked, taking in the sight. "They''ve certainly invested in presentation."


    "Wait until you see inside," Marco said, motioning toward the door.


    As they stepped closer, Lorenzo noticed posters affixed to the exterior walls. The posters featured the same stylish ''M'' logo and advertised special offers: "Latin Bibles¡ª40 Gold Ducats Each. Bulk Orders¡ª29 Ducats Each for 10 or More." Other notices announced upcoming releases, hinting at new works that would soon be available.


    "They''re using visual displays to promote their goods," Lorenzo observed. "A fascinating approach."


    They entered the bookstore, a bell chiming softly above the door. Inside, the atmosphere was both hushed and bustling. The large space was well-lit, with sunlight streaming through high windows. Along one side, traders waited their turn in a designated area, seated on benches arranged neatly. At the front, a long counter served as a customer service desk, behind which several employees attended to clients.


    Shelves lined the walls, though they held only a few books at the moment. Large posters adorned the spaces between the shelves¡ªstylized illustrations featuring the Morea Publishing logo.The clerks¡ªfive young men¡ªwere all dressed in matching tunics of deep blue, an unusual uniformity that caught Lorenzo''s eye. Each bore a small parchment tag affixed to their chest with their name elegantly inscribed¡ªa practice unheard.


    "This is unlike any merchant establishment I''ve seen," Lorenzo whispered, intrigued. "They''ve introduced a level of organization and presentation that''s entirely new."


    Marco nodded, observing the neatly arranged waiting area and the orderly manner in which customers were attended. "Even the way they manage patrons¡ªhaving them sit and wait their turn¡ªit''s remarkably efficient."


    "Not to mention the promotional posters and the way the staff engages with clients," Lorenzo added. "It''s as if they''ve crafted a ceremony, not just a transaction."


    "Indeed," Marco agreed. "The organization, the icons¡ªit''s all very deliberate."


    Around them, other merchants examined sample Bibles displayed on a central table, discussing the quality and pricing with the staff. The atmosphere was one of eager anticipation mixed with professional efficiency.


    One of the clerks approached Lorenzo and Marco with a respectful bow, speaking in a humble yet formal manner. "Noble sirs, I bid you welcome to Morea Publishing. How may I be of service to you this day?


    "We seek to purchase copies of the Latin Bible," Lorenzo said, his tone measured. "A substantial quantity, if such can be procured."


    The clerk offered a courteous smile. "It would be our great honor to assist in this matter. However, I must inform you that our current stock is much diminished. A fresh supply is expected within a month¡¯s time. Should it please you, we can reserve the number you require."


    Lorenzo glanced at Marco before replying. "That will suffice. How many copies remain at present?"


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    "At this moment, we hold but ten copies in our possession," the clerk responded, inclining his head. "However, we can assuredly set aside more from the forthcoming shipment."


    "Only ten?" Lorenzo said, his voice betraying a hint of disappointment. "Very well, we shall take the ten that remain and place an order for fifty more."


    "Most excellent, my lord," the clerk said, retrieving a ledger. "If you would be so kind as to provide your name and details, we shall finalize the arrangements. Moreover, for orders exceeding ten copies, the price is lowered to twenty-nine gold ducats per volume."


    "That is good to hear," Marco interjected. "We are grateful for your assistance."


    As they conducted the transaction, Lorenzo couldn''t help but feel a growing unease beneath his professional demeanor. The efficiency of the process was impressive¡ªperhaps too much so. The employee was knowledgeable and polite, guiding them through the steps with practiced ease. Yet, his manner had a subtle rigidity, as if he were following a carefully rehearsed script.


    "I must say," Lorenzo remarked, "this establishment is most impressive. The manner in which you conduct your affairs is... most novel."


    "You honor us with your kind words," the clerk replied humbly. "We are ever at your service. Should you require aught else, pray do not hesitate to call upon us."


    After concluding their business, Lorenzo paused to cast his gaze about the room once more. "The banners, the attire of the clerks, the manner of arrangement¡ªit is all most deliberate," he remarked softly to Marco.


    "Indeed, it is truly remarkable," Marco agreed


    As they exited the bookstore, the sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky. The guards nodded politely as they passed, and the bustle of the port resumed around them.


    "We need to confirm our suspicions about their production methods," Lorenzo said thoughtfully. "I know they''re using some form of mechanical press, but we need more informations¡±


    "Agreed," Marco said. "But how do you propose we uncover their secrets? They''ve been careful not to reveal too much."


    Just then, they noticed one of the bookstore clerks exiting the building, glancing over his shoulder before slipping down a narrow alley with a satchel slung over his shoulder. His furtive movements caught their attention.


    "There''s our chance," Lorenzo whispered, a hint of urgency in his voice.


    Marco hesitated. "Are you sure about this? If they catch us prying, it could mean serious trouble."


    Lorenzo''s eyes narrowed. "Knowledge is power, my friend. But we must be cautious. One misstep, and we could find ourselves in a dungeon¡ªor worse.¡±


    They followed discreetly until the clerk paused in a quiet corner to adjust his belongings. Lorenzo approached him with a friendly smile.


    "Good day to you, friend," he began. "You serve at the bookstore, do you not?"


    The young man looked up, his expression wary. "Aye, my lord, that I do."


    "I must offer my praise for the fine service and the quality of the Bibles," Lorenzo continued. "They are truly most remarkable.


    "Your kind words are appreciated," the clerk replied cautiously.


    "My associate and I are merchants from Venice," Lorenzo explained. "We are much intrigued by the skill with which such fine books are made and in such abundance. We hoped you might enlighten us."


    The clerk hesitated, his gaze shifting uneasily to the empty street. "I beg your pardon, my lord, but I am not at liberty to speak of such matters with those from beyond our lands. The Despot¡¯s laws are strict."


    "Of course, we understand," Lorenzo said, his voice smooth. He produced a small pouch of coins, the weight of it evident. "But perhaps you could share a little, as a professional courtesy. Your secret would be safe with us."


    The young man swallowed hard, eyeing the pouch. "If anyone learned I spoke of this, it could cost me dearly."


    "We give you our word," Marco interjected softly, "not a breath of this shall escape us."


    After a tense pause, the clerk accepted the pouch with trembling hands. He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. "I ought not to speak of it, but... the books are made with a device¡ªa press¡ªthat imprints the pages swiftly, by pressing inked metal letters onto paper."


    "Metal letters?" Marco echoed, feigning surprise.


    "Aye," the clerk confirmed, casting another anxious glance about. "But you must understand, the workshop is a most guarded secret. It lies beyond the outskirts of Glarentza, and only a chosen few may enter. The guards are ever vigilant, and the Despot has decreed harsh penalties for any who would dare to betray its secrecy."


    Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. "It would seem the Despot guards his secrets well."


    "More than you know," the clerk replied. "I shouldn''t say more. If word got out that I spoke of this..." He trailed off, fear evident in his eyes.


    As Lorenzo and Marco made their way back toward the harbor, Marco shook his head in amazement.


    "If we could learn more about this press and perhaps replicate it, we could revolutionize the book trade in Venice," Lorenzo mused.


    "But gaining access to such a guarded secret will be challenging," Marco cautioned.


    "We''ll need to be discreet and resourceful," Lorenzo agreed. "Perhaps there are others who can provide more information or ways to observe the operation without arousing suspicion."


    "For now, securing the Bibles we''ve ordered is important,¡± Marco pointed out.


    "True," Lorenzo conceded. "But we must not lose sight of the larger opportunity. This could change everything."


    They continued toward the docks, the gears of ambition turning in their minds as the sun cast long shadows over Glarentza. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and possibility, and Lorenzo felt a thrill at the prospect of what lay ahead.


    A week later at Clermont Castle, Michael sat at the head of the council table, his gaze steady as he surveyed his assembled advisors. A crackling fire warmed the room, the scent of burning wood mingling with that of parchment and ink. George Sphrantzes sat to his right, his expression attentive. Theophilus Dragas and Petros the steward were present, along with the senior officials who had become familiar faces in these meetings.


    "Gentlemen," Michael began, "I am pleased to report that all our stock of Latin Bibles has been sold, and we have received orders for at least another nine hundred copies."


    A murmur of satisfaction rippled through the room.


    "Your decision to establish the bookstore has proven wise my despot," Theophilus added. "Not only has it facilitated sales, but it has also increased our visibility and reputation."


    Petros stood, referencing a ledger before him. "With the proceeds from the sales, we have cleared our debts and fortified the treasury. We have also secured a significant quantity of gunpowder, enough to sustain our arsenal''s operations for the foreseeable future."


    "Excellent," Michael said. "Our pricing strategy of 29 gold ducats whole sale per Bible has yielded substantial profits while remaining attractive to our buyers."


    George leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "However, we must address a pressing concern¡ªthe dire state of our paper supply. The cotton shortage caused by the harsh winter continues to cripple our production capacity."


    Michael sighed. "Indeed. Without sufficient paper, our presses fall silent, and we risk losing the market we''ve worked so hard to build."


    Theophilus spoke up, his voice measured. "Perhaps we should consider scaling back our expansion, focusing on local markets until we stabilize our resources."


    Petros shook his head. "But scaling back now could signal weakness. The demand from Venice and Genoa is soaring. If we cannot meet it, they may turn elsewhere¡ªor worse, seek to uncover our methods."


    "May I propose a course of action?" George suggested.


    "Please do." Michael replied.


    "Now that our treasury is replenished, we can afford to purchase cotton from external sources. The market of Ragusa offers ample supplies, and they are amenable to trade with us. I recommend organizing an expedition to secure the necessary materials."


    Theophilus concurred. "Establishing a reliable supply chain is crucial. We should also consider forming long-term trade agreements to prevent future shortages."


    "Agreed," Michael said. "Let''s make the necessary arrangements. George, I entrust you with coordinating the expedition to Ragusa."


    "Thank you, Despot. I will ensure its success."


    Petros interjected. "Additionally, our success with the bookstore in Glarentza suggests we could replicate this model in other towns, expanding our reach- as you mention already my Despot.¡±


    "A promising idea," Michael acknowledged. "But let''s prioritize stabilizing our production capabilities first.


    The meeting continued with discussions on resource allocation, infrastructure improvements, and the expansion of the arsenal. The mood was one of cautious optimism.


    As the council members began to depart, Michael gestured for George to stay behind.


    "George," Michael began, a sincere warmth in his voice, "your efforts have been invaluable. I want you to know how much I appreciate your counsel and dedication."


    George met his gaze, a hint of gratitude in his eyes. "I am honored to serve, Despot. Together, we are forging a path to a stronger future."


    Michael walked over to the window, the sun now bathing the landscape in a warm glow. He watched as the golden light stretched over the fields, a serene contrast to the weight on his shoulders. "There''s still much to be done," he mused. "But for the first time in a long while, I feel we''re moving in the right direction.


    "Indeed," George agreed, joining him by the window. "The challenges ahead are significant, but so are the opportunities."


    Michael turned to face him, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. "We must remain vigilant. The Ottomans are preoccupied for now, but that may not last. Our preparations must continue unabated." He paused, then added, "I''ve decided to accompany you on the trip to Ragusa. A change of scenery might do me some good."


    George raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised. "Are you certain, Despot? The journey is long, and your presence here is invaluable."


    "I''m certain," Michael affirmed. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze drifting back to the window. Inwardly, he felt a stir of excitement¡ªa flicker of the wanderlust he remembered from his previous life. The thrill of exploring new places, the rush of travel, the simple joy of movement¡ªall things he dearly missed from the 21st century. Perhaps this journey would rekindle that spirit within him.


    "I believe the trip will be beneficial," he continued. "Not only can I assist in securing the trade agreements, but it will also provide an opportunity to observe and learn."


    George nodded thoughtfully. "Very well. Your presence will undoubtedly strengthen our position in Ragusa. Rest assured, the arsenal will continue its work during our absence, and I''ll ensure we are kept informed of any developments."

 Chapter 17: On the Sea

    Port of Glarentza, April 1430


    The morning sun bathed Glarentza harbor in a warm glow, each sea ripple catching the light and scattering it like a thousand diamonds. I stood at the stern of the Kyrenia, the scent of salt and tar filling the air as a gentle breeze tugged at my cloak. My fingers traced the smooth, weathered wood of the railing¡ªa silent witness to countless voyages across these ancient waters.


    The familiar cries of gulls circled overhead, their calls mingling with the distant clamor of the bustling port. Merchants shouted, and sailors exchanged coarse jokes. The rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestone echoed from the nearby streets. Amidst the vibrant mix of sounds, a flutter stirred in my stomach¡ªa mix of excitement and unease that quickened my pulse.


    "All the cargo is aboard, right?" I asked Damianus for what must have been the third time since dawn. This was my first voyage since arriving in this world¡ªthis body¡ªtwo years ago.


    "Aye, all''s stowed and secured, Despot," Damianus called out, approaching with a seasoned sailor''s stride. His weathered face bore a knowing grin. "She''s heavy with cargo, but the Kyrenia dances with the waves like a dolphin eager to leap."


    I turned to him, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "You''ve a poet''s tongue today, Damianus."


    He chuckled, his eyes crinkling with mirth. "Just calling it as I see it, my lord. The sea''s in a fine mood, and it''d be a shame to keep her waiting."


    The Kyrenia¡ªa sturdy two-masted galley, the only ship I owned¡ªwas rigged with lateen sails, sleek for Mediterranean winds. This ship had carried me here in 1427 and had been part of my brother¡¯s fleet in the naval battle of Echinades. Now, with six Drakos cannons mounted, I had made the Kyrenia the most formidable ship on these waters¡ªa sleek predator¡ª or so I believed.


    As I stared across the deck, my mind wandered to the future. I knew I was ahead of my time, possibly by a century or more. No one else was using cannons like this for naval warfare. And yet... my plans grew larger with each passing day. I dreamed of constructing great carracks, Portuguese-style, built for the open sea and bristling with cannons. I could change the entire naval landscape of the Mediterranean¡ªif I survived long enough to see it through.


    Nearby, the Venetian trade ship we''d hired as a companion swayed gently, her crew bustling to secure the last of their provisions. The Venetians, renowned mariners though they were, had yet to embrace the true potential of naval artillery. Their heavy hold was prepared for cotton and goods from Ragusa, but they sailed without the thunderous power that rested within our cannons.


    At the bow, George Sphrantzes stood engaged in earnest conversation with Damianus. George had become more than an advisor¡ªhe was a steadfast ally in this world that was still foreign to me. His calm logic grounded me when my thoughts raced ahead, plotting futures unknown to those around me.


    "Despot," Damianus said, his voice drawing me back. "The wind favors us. Shall we set sail?"


    I took a deep breath, savoring the salty air. "Yes. Let''s not keep the sea waiting any longer."


    Damianus nodded and turned to the crew. "Lower the sails!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the deck.


    The men responded swiftly and efficiently, their movements practiced and sure. The sails caught the wind, and the Kyrenia began to pull away from the quay, gliding out into the open sea. The Venetian ship followed closely behind. As the wind filled our sails, I turned to Damianus. "Do you think this breeze will hold?"


    "For a while," he said, nodding. "If we¡¯re lucky, we¡¯ll reach Ragusa in under a week."


    I smiled, though a part of me wished our first destination could be Constantinople. There was no time for sightseeing now, however. Business awaited in Ragusa.


    Three days into the voyage, the weather shifted, the once calm sea becoming restless under darkening clouds. We had made a stop at Corfu, a Venetian-controlled island, to resupply, but the sea north of Corfu was known to be treacherous, both because of the weather and the pirates.


    I was in my cabin when I heard the shout, sharp and urgent, cutting through the air. "Pirates!"


    I rushed out, the cold sea wind whipping my face as I joined Damianus and George at the helm. "Where?" I asked breathlessly, scanning the horizon.


    "There," he said, pointing toward a fast-moving ship cresting the waves, bearing down on us with alarming speed. Its low, sleek hull identified it as a Dalmatian pirate vessel.


    "Damn it," I muttered. I had known piracy was a risk, but facing it firsthand was something else entirely. "How close?"


    "They¡¯re gaining," Damianus said, his voice tight. "They¡¯re preparing to ram us."


    My heart raced. I had to act quickly. "Prepare the Drakos," I ordered, my voice shaking with both fear and exhilaration.


    The crew moved swiftly, manning the cannons I had designed. This was it¡ªthe test of my innovations, of whether my modern knowledge could truly give me an edge in this brutal world.


    "Fire!" I shouted as the pirate ship closed the distance. The first cannon roared, belching smoke and flame, but the shot missed, the ball splashing uselessly into the sea.


    "Fire again!" I commanded, gritting my teeth. The second shot hit its mark, striking the pirate ship¡¯s hull with a thunderous crack. The crew cheered, but the pirates kept coming.


    As they closed in, the next barrage of cannon fire struck home, splintering the pirate ship¡¯s side. The deck exploded in chaos as pirates scrambled to control their vessel, but it was too late. The Drakos cannons had done their work.


    "Despot!" Damianus called out. "The ship is sinking."


    I felt a strange thrill course through me, something primal and fierce. "I don¡¯t care," I barked.


    "Fire again!"


    ¡°Again!¡±


    As the pirate vessel slipped beneath the waves, I felt a heavy knot in my stomach. The thrill of battle had given way to a sobering reality. Lives had been lost by my command. It was necessary, but the weight of it settled upon me like a cold mantle.


    The crew began to chant my name, "Constantine! Constantine!" Their faces shone admiring, but I could only manage a faint smile.


    Port of Ragusa


    Ragusa¡¯s towering white stone walls gleamed in the midday sun as the Kyrenia entered the busy harbor. With its blend of East and West, the city was as much a symbol of wealth and trade as it was a fortress against the ever-growing threats of the Mediterranean.


    However, our arrival was delayed by Ragusa¡¯s strict quarantine policies, as was customary for all ships arriving by sea. Seven days of enforced isolation were not what I had anticipated, but the wait gave me ample time to reflect on our journey and plan for the challenges ahead.


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    It also gave me time to notice something¡ªor rather, someone¡ªwho had been watching us closely throughout the quarantine. The son of the Venetian trade captain, a young and inquisitive man, had taken an unusual interest in the Kyrenia. From the moment we docked, his eyes had rarely left our ship. He approached me several times during the quarantine, his questions seemingly innocent at first¡ªabout the cannons, the ship¡¯s modifications for them, and our recent encounter with pirates.


    At first, I answered his queries with a measured tone, keeping my explanations vague and noncommittal. But as the days wore on, I became increasingly cautious. His interest was far too keen, his gaze lingering too long on the cannons mounted along the deck. He seemed particularly fascinated by the Drakos and the ease with which we had repelled the pirate attack.


    "Your ship handled the pirates remarkably well, Despot," he remarked one afternoon, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. "Those cannons... I''ve never seen anything like them. And the way your crew fired them¡ªso precise."


    I offered a polite smile, though my guard was up. "We''ve made some improvements, yes. But any well-trained crew can do the same with enough practice."


    "Still," he continued, glancing again at the Kyrenia, "the design is... unusual. Your cannons seem more advanced than anything i seen¡±


    "Perhaps," I replied evenly, careful not to reveal too much. "We¡¯ve made a few modifications. But the sea demands creativity, doesn¡¯t it?"


    The young Venetian smiled, but there was a glint in his eyes that put me on edge. He wasn¡¯t asking out of casual curiosity¡ªhe was studying us, and that made me uneasy. Over the course of the quarantine, I caught him multiple times examining the Kyrenia closely, walking around her under the guise of admiring the ship, his eyes tracing the cannons and the modifications, as if memorizing every detail.


    He kept a low profile, careful not to disclose much about himself or his reasons for such keen interest. Whenever I pressed him about his background or his future plans, he deflected with practiced ease, steering the conversation back to the ship or the cannons.


    By the end of the week, I knew I had to be even more guarded. As I watched him now, lingering once more near the edge of the dock, his gaze fixed on the Kyrenia, I felt a growing sense of caution.


    "That one is trouble," George remarked quietly, stepping up beside me. His voice was low, his eyes tracking the young Venetian.


    I nodded, my jaw tightening. "He¡¯s asking too many questions. And he¡¯s paying far too much attention to those cannons."


    George¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°I am sure he will report this to someone in Venice¡±


    "Possibly," I muttered, my gaze still fixed on the young man. "Whatever the case, we¡¯ll need to keep a close eye on him once we return to Glarentza. We¡¯ll have to find a way to keep his mouth shut."


    George nodded in agreement. "Best not to take chances, Despot."


    I watched as the young Venetian stepped away from the ship, my mind already turning over the possibilities. Whether he was acting on behalf of the Venetians or simply too curious for his own good, I couldn¡¯t afford any loose ends. One way or another, I¡¯d make sure he didn¡¯t become a threat.


    George scouted the local market for cotton, and his report was what I expected but hoped to avoid. "The prices are high, my Despot," he said, frowning as he walked beside me through the crowded streets of Ragusa¡¯s commercial district. "Far higher than we would pay elsewhere."


    "I expected as much," I replied, glancing at the stalls lined with fabrics, spices, and other goods from across the Mediterranean. "But we need the cotton, and there''s little time to negotiate."


    We moved through the busy marketplace, carefully navigating the crowd of merchants and customers haggling over everything from silk to olive oil. The cotton merchants stood behind carefully guarded stalls, their goods protected from the elements by delicate cloth canopies. Though the quality was exceptional, the prices were steep¡ªfar more than I would have liked to pay. Still, we had little choice.


    After several rounds of tense negotiations, I secured the cotton we needed, though at a considerable price. It wasn¡¯t a deal that brought me joy, but it ensured we could continue producing books at the printing press back in the Morea, still with significant profits. As much as it stung to pay so much, the investment would pay off in time.


    Satisfied that the cotton was secured, we went to the more formal part of our visit¡ªa meeting with the Rector of Ragusa and the city¡¯s ruling council. It was a courtesy, mostly, but I had another purpose in mind.


    The Rector received us in a chamber within the city¡¯s grand hall. It was a simple room by Constantinople standards, but elegant in its own right, with paintings on the walls and large windows letting in the late afternoon light. The Rector, dressed in the formal crimson robes of his office, greeted us with polite formality. His sharp eyes studied me as we exchanged pleasantries, and the Senators who flanked him, each wearing a look of measured curiosity, mirrored his careful gaze.


    After the introductions, I presented the Bible¡ªa beautifully bound volume printed for exceptional cases. The Rector¡¯s hands traced the fine leather cover, his fingers lingering over the meticulously printed Latin script. He was clearly impressed, though his expression remained diplomatic.


    "A gift from the Morea",¡± I said, bowing slightly. "To show our appreciation for the hospitality of Ragusa."


    The Rector nodded, a faint smile breaking through his otherwise serious demeanor.


    "A most exquisite gift, Despot Constantine. The craftsmanship is remarkable. I have not seen its like before."


    "Thank you," I replied, keeping my tone measured. "We hope this is just the beginning of a prosperous relationship. In fact, I wished to inquire about establishing a more permanent presence here in Ragusa¡ªa small bookstore where we could sell such volumes. Our press in the Morea is growing, and I believe Ragusa could become an important center for learning, trade, and knowledge."


    The Senators exchanged glances, clearly surprised and intrigued by the idea, though they said nothing. The Rector remained thoughtful, tapping a finger against the Bible''s cover as he considered my request.


    "A bookstore?" he repeated. "That is an interesting proposition. Ragusa has always been a city of trade, but knowledge... knowledge is a different kind of commodity." He paused, his gaze sharp. "We are open to the idea, Despot, though such matters will need to be discussed further with the council. Permissions must be granted, and terms agreed upon."


    "I understand, of course," I said smoothly. "I look forward to those discussions."


    The meeting ended positively, with the Rector expressing cautious interest in the idea. Though nothing was finalized, I felt confident that Ragusa would eventually agree. A bookstore in such a city could provide not just profit but influence¡ªspreading ideas and knowledge while subtly expanding my reach beyond the Morea.


    On the way home


    As the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the harbor of Parga, I stood on the deck of the Kyrenia, watching as the last of the cargo was loaded aboard. We had left Ragusa days earlier, and this brief stop in Parga¡ªanother Venetian-controlled Greek town along the coast of Epirus¡ªwas meant to resupply before continuing our journey back to Glarentza. The port here was quieter than Ragusa, the hustle of merchants slowing as the day''s business drew to a close. It had been a productive but exhausting few days, and I was eager to return home.


    A crewman approached me, his face tense, and behind him trailed a thin man with drawn features, his eyes wide with a mix of exhaustion and fear. His clothes were plain, and his nervous posture suggested he was accustomed to looking over his shoulder.


    "Despot," the crewman said, bowing slightly. "This man wishes to speak with you. He says he has important information."


    I studied the stranger carefully. His eyes darted around as if expecting danger at any moment, his posture tense, as though he was ready to flee at the slightest provocation.


    "Who are you?" I asked, maintaining a cordial but cautious tone.


    He stepped forward, bowing slightly. "My name is Niketas, my lord. I beg a moment of your time."


    "Very well. Speak."


    He glanced around nervously before continuing, his voice low. "I couldn''t help but notice your ship¡ªthe cannons you have mounted. They''re unlike any I''ve seen."


    I raised an eyebrow. "You have an eye for cannons?¡±


    "Yes, my lord. I was a gunpowder maker serving the Ottomans¡ªworking on the siege bombards for Sultan Murad II."


    A flicker of interest sparked within me. "Go on."


    His jaw tightened, a shadow passing over his features. "An Ottoman Suba?? wronged my family¡ªhe violated my wife. In my rage, I killed him. We had to flee, and I brought my family to Ioannina, hoping to find refuge there."


    He paused, his face tense with emotion. "But even that refuge has been lost. Ioannina has fallen to the Ottomans. Sultan Murad¡¯s forces took the city, and now there is no safe place for us. The Tocco heir couldn¡¯t hold the city, and the Ottomans took unopposed.


    "I''m sorry for your suffering," I said sincerely. "But why come to me?"


    "I seek refuge and purpose," he replied, straightening his posture. Your cannons show innovation. I can offer my skills. I know the secrets of gunpowder, how to make it more potent, how to cast stronger barrels. All I ask is protection for my family."


    I glanced at George Sphrantzes, who had been listening intently. His subtle nod indicated his agreement that Niketas could be valuable.


    "You''re willing to swear loyalty to me?" I asked.


    "With all my heart, my lord. The Ottomans took everything from me. Let me help you stand against them."


    I considered him for a moment, if that¡¯s true,  his knowledge could be a significant asset, and his personal vendetta against the Ottomans aligned with our struggles.


    "Very well, Niketas," I said. "You and your family will have safe passage to the Morea. There, you''ll be able to use your skills for a worthy cause."


    Relief washed over his face, his eyes glistening. "Thank you, Despot. I won''t disappoint you."


    "See to it that your family is ready to depart promptly," I instructed. "We sail with the tide."

 Chapter 18: Fires of Dissent

    Theodore sat in his dimly lit chamber, his mind clouded by the incessant frustrations that had plagued him ever since his brother Constantine began meddling with the delicate fabric of Orthodox traditions. The noise of the religion¡ªof progress, of reform¡ªweighed heavily on his shoulders, and the cold stone walls of Mystras offered little comfort.


    Across from him, Alexios stood by the hearth, his expression unreadable. They had spoken at length before, in secret, about Constantine''s dangerous game with the Latin Church. The Latin Bibles. Theodore clenched his jaw at the thought. It wasn''t just the foreign alliances that burned in his soul¡ªit was Constantine''s obsession with bringing the West''s heresies into the empire.


    A knock echoed through the room.


    "Enter," Theodore commanded, his voice carrying the weight of his brooding anger.


    Two figures stepped into the room¡ªFather Damianos and Father Gregorios. Theodore rose from his chair, nodding to his trusted priests as they gathered around the table. Their expressions were tight with concern, shadows dancing across their faces as the fire flickered low.


    Father Damianos was the first to speak, his voice barely a whisper. "The Latin Bibles continue to flow through Glarentza, Despot Theodore. The men of your brother are emboldened. They speak of progress, yet they mean heresy."


    Theodore paced slowly, his fingers brushing along the cool stone of the chamber wall. He glanced at Alexios, who gave a slight nod.


    "We foresaw this," Theodore said, his voice calm yet firm. "My brother''s obsession with uniting East and West grows with each passing day, and the Emperor lends him support. But this cannot endure." He turned to face them, eyes flashing. "We must act with haste."


    Father Gregorios, always the more cautious of the two, shifted uncomfortably. "The clergy is divided, my Lord. There are many who share your concern, but so long as the Emperor endorses this union, they will not move openly. The Church is too fractured."


    Theodore''s frustration simmered just beneath the surface. "We require not all of them," he replied sharply. "Merely enough. We shall call for a secret ecclesiastical investigation¡ªquietly, behind closed doors. We will declare these Latin Bibles heretical. Let the people witness what my brother inflicts upon our faith."


    Alexios stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "There are new rumors, my Lord. It is said that a Greek version of the Holy Scriptures is being prepared, offered at prices lower than the Latin texts, with promises to gift some freely to local priests and monasteries. Constantine intends to embed this even deeper into the hearts of our people."


    Theodore paused, his mind briefly torn. A Greek version? This was different. Not heresy, yet cunning. Constantine was adapting, finding ways to neutralise the anti unionists, who would have rejected anything foreign. Theodore clenched his jaw.


    "He is shrewd indeed," Theodore admitted grudgingly, his tone low. "A Greek version... it is a cunning move. He maneuvers deftly against us, making it harder for the people to resist. The Church will not dismiss it readily now."


    Father Damianos frowned, his brows furrowing in frustration. "What benefit is there if the people are led astray, regardless of the tongue?"


    Theodore turned, pacing the room again. "Precisely. Constantine knows the Latin version will meet resistance, so he cloaks it under the guise of Orthodoxy by employing Greek. He renders it familiar, acceptable. It is a strategic move, one that will only strengthen his hand among the undecided."


    Father Gregorios shifted in his seat, his tone thoughtful rather than alarmed. "A Greek version will make it more difficult for those loyal to tradition to resist. It is not heresy, but he brings change through stealth."


    Theodore nodded, his expression hardening. "Indeed. He does not alter the faith itself, but he weaves his influence into the very fabric of the empire. If the people accept this, they will see no reason to oppose him¡ªand soon, they will accept all else he brings."


    Father Damianos frowned. "He disarms the anti unionists with subtlety. If they behold the Holy Scriptures in their own tongue, many will no longer question its origins or the implications."


    Theodore resumed pacing, the gears turning in his mind. "That is why we must act without delay, before he tightens his grip on the undecided and sways the majority. We cannot allow him to consolidate power through these means."


    "And that is not all," Alexios continued. "Merchants from Venice and Genoa flock to Glarentza in large numbers. Constantine has been selling these Bibles to them, and he is amassing great wealth from it."


    Father Damianos''s eyes widened with indignation. "He sells our very faith for gold.¡±


    Alexios nodded grimly. "They say the sales are flourishing. Venice and Genoa are eager buyers, and Constantine has gathered considerable riches from these dealings."


    Theodore stopped pacing, gripping the back of his chair, his knuckles turning white. "He enriches himself at the peril of the Roman soul. And the people¡ªhow long before they, too, fall under this influence?"


    Father Gregorios leaned in, his voice even lower. "There is something else, Despot. Word has reached us of something strange. Constantine has ordered cannons."


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    Theodore frowned. "Cannons?"


    "Yes, my Lord," Alexios confirmed. "But Constantine''s intentions are unclear. What does he intend to do with them? Is he preparing for war? A siege?"


    Theodore''s mind raced. Why would Constantine need such weapons? These are siege engines¡ªthe Venetians and Ottomans use them for sieges. He turned back to Alexios. "Are you certain?"


    "Absolutely, my Lord. Several ones have been crafted, though the specifics remain obscure," Alexios replied. "It is not just the Bibles, Despot. Constantine may be preparing for something larger, something we do not fully comprehend."


    The room fell into a tense silence, the implications of Alexios''s words weighing heavily on them all. Finally, Theodore spoke, his voice filled with grim resolve. "If Constantine believes he can reshape this empire with foreign ideas and engines of war, he is gravely mistaken. We shall stop him."


    Father Damianos exchanged a look with Alexios, hesitant but resolute. "Do we have men capable of this, Despot?"


    Alexios nodded. "We have agents in Glarentza who can move against him. One of them, a monk sympathetic to our cause, works within the printing press itself. He is well-placed to act when needed."


    Theodore straightened, his resolve hardening. "Good. Begin preparations to sabotage the press. But do so quietly. If this fails, it must not be traced back to us."


    Father Petros had been working quietly at the printing press for a month now. With the rapid construction of new presses in Glarentza, more labor was needed, and it wasn¡¯t difficult for him to secure a position among the workers. He kept a low profile, blending in with the other scribes and attendants, carefully watching, waiting for the right moment.


    By day, he fed paper and tended to the machinery. The hum of the presses never ceased as Latin Bibles¡ªConstantine¡¯s prized Latin texts¡ªrolled off the line in greater numbers each day. Every sheet felt like a betrayal, but Petros kept his emotions hidden behind a mask of quiet diligence. The Latin Bibles were spreading like wildfire, and Constantine''s influence with them. Petros knew he had to act.


    One evening, as the workshop began to empty and the night attendants took their places, Petros finished his shift as usual. He made a show of gathering his tools, chatting briefly with a fellow worker before leaving the building. The cool night air met his face as he walked down the dimly lit street. He counted his steps, knowing he would need to return soon. He paused near the end of the road, turning to glance back at the press. The time had come.


    Feigning forgetfulness, Petros retraced his steps toward the workshop. "I left my tools inside," he muttered to the guard at the entrance, keeping his voice casual. The guard, barely paying attention, waved him in. Once inside, Petros moved quickly. The building was nearly empty, only a few workers and a handful of guards nearby, none of them paying attention to him.


    He made his way to the storage area, where stacks of paper and ink barrels were piled high.From beneath his robe, he pulled a small flask of oil and a flint. His hands shook slightly as he began to pour the oil onto the stacks of paper, soaking the edges.


    Just as he was about to strike the flint to ignite the flames, a firm voice broke the silence.


    ¡°Hold, wretch!¡±


    Petros froze, his heart pounding in his chest. A guard stood at the entrance of the storage room, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene¡ªthe oil-soaked paper, the flask in Petros''s hand.


    ¡°What mischief do you plot?¡± the guard demanded, stepping forward with his hand on the hilt of his sword.


    Petros''s mind raced. "I... I merely sought¡ª"


    "treachery," the guard interrupted. "You''re trying to burn down the workshop!"


    Before Petros could respond, the guard seized him by the arm. "You''re coming with me."


    As the guard led him out of the storage area, other workers and guards were alerted by the commotion. They glanced at Petros with suspicion and whispered among themselves.


    The guard addressed them loudly. "This man was found in the act of treason, seeking to set fire to the workshop!"


    A murmur of shock rippled through the small crowd. Petros kept his gaze downward, realizing that his mission had failed before it even began.


    Clermont Castle


    The cold stone walls of the dungeon beneath Clermont Castle were damp and silent, save for the occasional echo of distant footsteps. Father Petros sat hunched in a dark cell, his wrists bound with iron chains, his robe torn and soiled. He had been in the dungeon for days, refusing to speak despite the repeated questions. His silence infuriated Theophilos.


    The heavy door creaked open, and Theophilos entered, flanked by two guards. His expression was unreadable as he stared down at the monk. Petros¡¯ face was pale, his body weakened by the cold and lack of food, but his eyes still held a glint of defiance.


    Theophilos nodded to one of the guards, who stepped forward with a bundle of tools. The room fell silent as the guard unrolled the cloth, revealing the gleaming metal of the instruments. Byzantine interrogation was known for its brutal efficiency.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been loyal to your cause,¡± Theophilos said calmly, stepping closer to Petros. ¡°But even the most loyal men have their limits. Who sent you? Who commands you?¡±


    Petros remained silent, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Theophilos watched him for a moment, then nodded to the guards. Without hesitation, they moved in, grabbing Petros by the shoulders and pulling him to the floor.


    The next hours were filled with the sounds of iron tools and muffled cries. Petros'' body was wracked with pain, but still, he refused to speak. No matter how much agony he endured, he kept his silence. Sweat dripped down his face, and his vision blurred, but in his mind, he prayed to God for strength.


    Theophilos stood over him, arms crossed, his expression cold and unmoving. "You¡¯ve held out longer than I expected. Impressive, but it won¡¯t save you."


    Petros looked up, his lips barely able to form the words. ¡°I serve God, not men.¡±


    Theophilos sighed, motioning to the guards to stop. "You leave me no choice."


    With a swift motion, one of the guards stepped forward, delivering a fatal blow to Petros¡¯ temple. The monk¡¯s body went limp, the fight finally leaving him. The room fell into a heavy silence.


    Theophilos turned to the guards. ¡°Dispose of the body. He may have kept his silence, but we will find the ones responsible for this.¡±


    As the guards moved to lift the body, Theophilos¡¯ eyes caught something clutched in Petros¡¯ hand.


    ¡°Stop,¡± he commanded, stepping closer to examine it.


    The monk¡¯s lifeless fingers were curled tightly around a komvoskini, the prayer rope still wrapped around his hand. Theophilos knelt and carefully uncurled the dead man¡¯s fingers, revealing the intricately woven rope.


    He turned it over in his hands, recognizing the specific style immediately¡ªa design he had seen before. It was made in the exact manner used at a monastery in Mystras, known for its staunchly anti-union stance.


    Theophilos¡¯ expression darkened as he held the komvoskini, the significance of the find sinking in. This wasn¡¯t just a lone monk acting on misguided zeal. He had ties to the anti-union faction.


    As Theophilos stood over the dead monk, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the dungeon walls, a new thought took root. The conspiracy went deeper than just one man. And now he had a lead.

 Chapter 19: The Weight of Destiny

    Glarentza, May 1430


    The sea breeze carried the familiar scent of salt and promise as the Kyrenia glided gracefully into the bustling port of Glarentza. Sunlight danced on the gentle waves, casting shimmering reflections upon the ships anchored nearby. The harbor was alive with activity¡ªsailors shouted orders as they unloaded cargo, merchants haggled over prices, and laughter mingled with the creaking of wooden masts. Michael stood at the bow, his cloak billowing softly in the wind, a faint smile playing on his lips. The sight of his city thriving filled his heart with a rare warmth; the once quiet port now teemed with life, a testament to the progress they had painstakingly achieved.


    As the gangplank was thudded onto the dock, a small contingent of guards in polished armor formed a respectful line. At their head stood Theophilus Dragas, his robes deep black. His stern face softened as he caught sight of Michael, and he stepped forward with a measured grace befitting his station.


    "Welcome home, Despot Constantine," Theophilus said, bowing deeply. His voice carried a note of genuine relief. "Your return brings joy to us all. Was your journey prosperous?"


    Michael descended the gangplank, his boots meeting the solid ground with a sense of familiarity. He clasped Theophilus''s outstretched hand warmly. "Indeed, Theophilus. The voyage was fruitful, though not without its trials. It gladdens me to see Glarentza so full of vigor."


    Theophilus gestured toward the bustling marketplace beyond. "Trade has indeed flourished in your absence, my Despot. The demand for our bibles surpasses all expectations. Merchants from distant lands arrive daily, eager to partake in our offerings."


    Michael''s gaze swept over the harbor, taking in the colorful awnings of the stalls and the lively crowd. "It is as we hoped," he mused, his eyes reflecting a mix of satisfaction and contemplation. "Our endeavors begin to bear fruit."


    A subtle tension flickered across Theophilus''s features. "There is much to discuss, my Despot. Matters of import have arisen during your travels."


    Michael raised an eyebrow, his expression turning serious. "Has something occurred?"


    Theophilus hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Perhaps it is best if we speak within the council chamber. Some matters are best discussed away from prying ears."


    Michael nodded slowly, a hint of concern edging into his voice. "Very well. Lead the way."


    As they rode through the winding streets toward the castle of Clermont, the guards formed a discreet escort, their eyes vigilant. Mounted atop their horses, Michael led the way with Theophilus beside him, his demeanor composed but inwardly unsettled. George rode on Michael''s other side, his gaze steady and watchful. The clip-clop of hooves echoed off the stone buildings, mingling with the distant murmur of the bustling city. Michael sensed the unease in Theophilus but held his questions, knowing the time for answers would come soon enough.


    Reaching the castle gates, they passed beneath the archway adorned with the Roman double-headed eagle. The guards saluted smartly as they entered the cool shadows of the courtyard.


    Inside the council chamber, the atmosphere shifted. Tall candles dimly lit the chamber, flames flickering against the stone walls adorned with maps and paintings. Petros, the steward, busied himself with a stack of parchments, glancing up as they entered.


    "Despot," Petros greeted, bowing respectfully. "It is good to see you returned safely."


    "Thank you, Petros,¡± Michael replied, taking his seat at the head of the table. "It seems there is much to discuss."


    "Indeed," Petros exchanged a glance with Theophilus. "There have been... developments."


    Michael folded his hands, his gaze steady. "Then let us not delay further. Speak plainly."


    Theophilus took a breath. "While you and George were in Ragusa, an incident occurred at the printing press. A monk attempted to set fire to our paper storeroom. Fortunately, one of the guards apprehended him before significant damage was done."


    Michael''s eyes narrowed. "A deliberate act of sabotage?"


    "It appears so," Theophilus confirmed. "He was caught with oil and a flint. Only a small portion of our already limited paper stock was ruined."


    Michael leaned back, absorbing the information. "Was he interrogated?"


    Theophilus hesitated. "He was, my lord, but he revealed little. Regrettably, he did not survive the questioning."


    A silence settled over the room. Michael''s jaw tightened imperceptibly. "I see. Do we know if he acted alone?"


    "We cannot be certain," Theophilus interjected. "But it''s unlikely he orchestrated this without influence. There may be others who share his intent."


    Petros stepped forward, his youthful face marked with concern. "Despot, if I may¡ªthis act coincides with whispers among the workers. Some speak of discontent, fueled by anti-unionists who oppose the unification of the two churches. They consider the production of a Latin Bible to be heresy."


    Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ¡°I see; that could explain the sabotage attempt."


    He paused, then continued, "Speaking of which, how does the development of the metal letters for the Greek version of the scriptures progress?"


    Theophilus sighed softly. "It still requires considerable refinement, my Despot. We have devoted much of our effort to the Latin typeset to meet the overwhelming demand for the Latin Bibles. Our resources have been stretched thin."


    Michael nodded, his gaze distant for a moment. "I understand the constraints, but we must advance the Greek printing. Providing scriptures in our own tongue may alleviate some of the tensions and counter the claims of heresy."


    Theophilus inclined his head. "You are right, Despot. We will redouble our efforts on the Greek typesetting. However, it will take time to perfect the characters."


    "Do what you must," Michael said firmly. "Allocate additional resources if needed. The unity and support of our people depend on it."


    Theophilus exchanged a determined glance with Petros. "It shall be done."


    Michael surveyed the faces of his council. "We cannot dismiss the possibility of outside interference, especially from those who fear the changes we bring. Strengthen our security measures, and remain vigilant. Our work is too important to be undermined by fear and ignorance."


    "Agreed," George said. "We will ensure that all precautions are taken."


    "On a related matter," Petros continued, "the cotton shortage has halted our paper production. The supplies you procured from Ragusa will allow us to resume, but it will take time to reach previous levels."


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Michael''s gaze softened slightly. "The demand for our books remains high?¡±


    "Exceedingly so," Theophilus replied with a hint of a smile. "We have over a thousand orders, many with payments made in advance. Clients are eager, some even offering bonuses for priority."


    A faint glimmer of satisfaction crossed Michael''s face. "Then we must not disappoint them. Allocate resources accordingly to meet the demand as swiftly as possible."


    Theophilus shifted his weight, his expression turning somber. "There is more, Despot. News has reached us that Thessalonica has fallen to the Ottomans."


    Michael felt a cold weight settle in his chest. "Thessalonica... Are we certain?"


    "Yes," Theophilus affirmed. "The city, succumbed after the prolonged siege. The Ottomans now hold it firmly."


    Memories of Constantine stirred within Michael¡ªThessalonica, its vibrant markets and towering churches. A city rich in history, now under the shadow of the crescent.


    "The loss is profound," Michael murmured.


    He took a deep breath before continuing. "While in Parga, I received word that Ioannina has fallen too. Carlo II Tocco could not hold against the Ottoman advance."


    A murmur of concern rippled through the council members. George exchanged a grave look with Theophilus.


    "The Ottomans are relentless," George said quietly. "Their reach extends further each day."


    Petros nodded solemnly. "Thessalonica and now Ioannina... The threat draws ever closer to our borders."


    "Indeed," Theophilus agreed. "On a positive note, two more Drakos cannons were successfully cast during your absence. Our total now stands at sixteen. Progress with the handguns continues, albeit slowly."


    Michael met his gaze. "Every advantage we can muster may prove decisive. Ensure that the craftsmen have all they require."


    He paused, his thoughts turning inward for a moment. "There is another matter that requires our attention."


    George nodded knowingly. "The young Venetian."


    "Yes," Michael confirmed. "His interest in our cannons and operations was more than mere curiosity. It could compromise our position if he carries tales back to Venice."


    Theophilus exchanged a concerned look with George. "What course of action do you propose, my Despot?¡±


    Michael''s eyes flickered with a hint of anger. "We cannot allow our innovations to fall into potentially hostile hands. Discretion is paramount, but he must be prevented from reporting what he has seen."


    George spoke carefully. "An unfortunate accident could be arranged. It must be handled delicately to avoid arousing suspicion among the Venetians."


    Michael exhaled slowly, "Proceed, but ensure no trace leads back to us."


    "Understood," George affirmed solemnly.


    A somber silence settled over the council. Michael surveyed the faces around him¡ªloyal men, each bearing the burdens of their roles. He felt the isolation of leadership keenly in that moment.


    That evening, the castle''s great hall was filled with the warm glow of candlelight and the gentle hum of conversation. Michael hosted a dinner for the esteemed traders who had journeyed to Glarentza, their faces a mix of cultures and backgrounds. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, and the air was fragrant with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine.


    As the courses were served, Michael moved among his guests, engaging in earnest dialogue. He found himself seated beside Benedetto Gentile Pevere, a seasoned Genoese merchant and diplomat whose keen eyes missed little.


    "Your city is quite the sensation, Despot Constantine," Benedetto remarked, swirling the wine in his goblet. "It seems to thrive even as shadows loom elsewhere.""Your city is a sensation, Despot Constantine,"


    Benedetto remarked, swirling the wine in his goblet. "It seems to flourish even as shadows loom elsewhere."


    Michael modestly inclined his head. "We aim to create a haven of learning and trade, where prosperity can thrive despite the turbulence beyond our borders."


    Benedetto nodded appreciatively. "A noble endeavor. News travels swiftly along the trade routes. Have you heard of the remarkable events unfolding in the Kingdom of France?"


    Michael arched an eyebrow, feigning polite curiosity. "I confess, my focus has been consumed by matters here. What news do you bring?"


    "A peasant girl, scarcely seventeen, has risen to prominence," Benedetto said, his voice tinged with amazement. "They call her Joan of Arc. She claims to be guided by divine visions and has rallied the French forces. Remarkably, she lifted the siege of Orl¨¦ans and has led them to several victories against the English."


    Michael felt a jolt run through him, though he maintained a composed exterior. "A peasant girl leading armies? Truly, these are extraordinary times."


    "Indeed," Benedetto agreed. "Some say she is a saint, others a sorceress. Regardless, her impact is undeniable. The tides of war shift under her banner."


    Michael sipped his wine thoughtfully. The name Joan of Arc resonated deeply within him¡ªa figure from his own historical knowledge now living and breathing in this world. It was a humbling reminder of history unfolding around him.


    "It is a tale that inspires," he mused aloud. "A testament to the unexpected paths that fate may weave."


    Benedetto observed him shrewdly. "You speak as one who understands the weight of destiny."


    Michael met his gaze evenly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply recognize the power of conviction in uncertain times."


    Their conversation drifted to other matters, but Michael''s thoughts lingered on Joan of Arc. The convergence of his past life''s knowledge with present realities stirred a mix of awe and introspection.


    Later, as the moon cast a silver glow over the quiet courtyards, Michael stood alone on the balcony of his chambers.


    Footsteps approached softly behind him. Without turning, he spoke. "Is it done?"


    George''s voice was steady and direct. "Yes, Despot. The young Venetian met with misfortune by the harbor. Witnesses saw him slip into the water. A tragic accident."


    Michael gazed out over the sleeping city, his expression inscrutable. "Good," he replied coolly. "One less complication to contend with."


    George studied him momentarily, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. "You seem untroubled by this course of action."


    Michael turned to face him, his gaze sharp and unyielding. "Trouble serves no purpose, George. Decisions must be made, and actions taken. Hesitation is a luxury we cannot afford."


    A flicker of concern crossed George''s face. "I recall a time when such measures weighed heavily upon you."


    Michael''s lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Times change, and so do we. The world grows harsher by the day. Adaptation is the key to survival."


    George hesitated before speaking again. "When we first arrived in Glarentza, I must admit, I was perplexed by your sudden changes¡ªthe grand plans, the selling of your lands in Constantinople, recruiting craftsmen, and the creation of that machine for books. It was... unlike the man I thought I knew."


    Michael raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "Is that so?"


    "Yes," George continued cautiously. "But now, seeing all that you''ve accomplished here, I begin to understand. This move to Glarentza has transformed you. You''ve become more decisive, wiser¡ªlike a man who carries the weight of many more years."


    Michael regarded him thoughtfully. "Perhaps the challenges we''ve faced have necessitated a different approach. Experience can be a great teacher."


    George nodded slowly. "It''s as if you''ve lived a lifetime beyond your years."


    Michael''s gaze drifted back to the horizon, where the stars pierced the night sky. Internally, he couldn''t help but reflect on George''s words. If only you knew, he thought. Transposed from his own time at fifty-five into this younger body, he indeed carried the weight of another lifetime''s experiences.


    "Every step we''ve taken has been toward securing our future," Michael said aloud. "Sentimentality has no place in the face of existential threats."


    George studied him, a mixture of respect and unease in his eyes. "I see that now. Your clarity of purpose is... formidable."


    "Clarity is born from necessity," Michael replied dismissively. "We stand on the precipice of great change. Only those willing to do what is required will prevail."


    An uncomfortable silence settled between them before George ventured cautiously, "Your vision for the Morea is bold, Despot. Not many would dare to dream so greatly."


    Michael met his gaze directly. "Boldness is the only path forward. The timid have no place in the annals of history."


    George inclined his head. "You have my unwavering support. I am honored to serve alongside you."


    "You are like a brother to me."


    ¡°I am honoured, my despot,¡± George agreed softly. "Rest well."


    As George''s footsteps retreated into the shadows, Michael remained on the balcony, the cool breeze brushing against his face. He felt no remorse for the Venetian''s fate¡ªonly a detached acceptance. The man had been a threat, and threats needed to be eliminated. It was a simple equation.


    Sentiment is a weakness I can no longer afford. The path to power is paved with difficult choices.


    Let them see me as they wish¡ªa visionary, a tyrant, a stranger. It matters not. What matters is that I succeed.


    Simple as that.


    Michael stood silently, his mind drifting to Joan of Arc, a peasant girl who had defied empires. She believed she was chosen to liberate her people¡ªdestiny woven into the very fabric of her existence.


    But what of him? Could the same be true for him? Was he destined for more, or were these just the illusions of a man grasping at power? What if that¡¯s my purpose here? The question echoed in his mind, louder this time, insistent. His thoughts turned to the stories his Yaya had told him as a child¡ªtales of the Marmaromenos Vasilias, the "Marble Emperor," who would rise again to save Byzantium in its darkest hour. Could it be? Was he the one fated to fulfill that prophecy? Am I the Marmaromenos Vasilias?


    He clenched his fists, feeling the strength of Constantine¡¯s body in every muscle and sinew. I am Constantine Palaiologos.