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Constantine walked the length of the battlefield with measured steps. His boots sank into the mud softened by dawn's dew, each movement accompanied by a soft, squelching sound that seemed to echo the sluggish heartbeat of a land awakening to tragedy. The early morning mist clung low to the earth, swirling around the dead and dying in ghostly tendrils. Every breath tasted of iron. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the dampness in the air—a macabre perfume that no wind seemed strong enough to disperse.

He paused next to a fallen halberdier—an older man, one of Sforza's seasoned veterans. The soldier's eyes were half-lidded in a final, unseeing stare, and the chill of his body told Constantine there was no hope left. Constantine set a hand on the dead man's shoulder, murmuring a prayer beneath his breath. He felt a flicker of something like guilt deep in his core. That flicker died quickly, replaced by the familiar numbness that followed every battle. They had few men to spare, and each loss cut him deeper than he cared to admit.

A shout behind him drew his attention. Through the veils of mist, he saw Captain Andreas approaching, his posture rigid, his face arranged in a careful mask of composure. The captain's cloak was stained dark at the hem, soaked with the blood of those he had tried to save—or perhaps those he could not. He stopped a few paces away, standing with a tension that suggested he was still prepared to fight.

"We held the wall, Despot," Andreas said quietly. His voice carried a sense of reluctant relief. "But at a heavy price."

Constantine's eyes drifted toward the looming shape of the Hexamilion Wall. It stood intact, though battered—much like his men. "How many?" he asked, toneless.

Andreas hesitated just long enough for Constantine to see the dread flicker in his eyes. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. "More than seven thousand Ottoman dead," he answered, releasing the words like a confession. "But we lost fifteen hundred, including the wounded."

For a long moment, Constantine said nothing. The faint cries of the wounded dotted the silence, each moan twisting the air with agony. His own breath fogged in front of him, mingling with the haze that blurred friend and foe alike. At last, he nodded, an imperceptible dip of his chin. "They died for more than this wall, Andreas. They died, proving the empire still has teeth."

The lingering mist began to recede, revealing more bodies sprawled in contorted positions. Officers moved among the wounded, offering water or a clean rag to staunch the bleeding. Some managed a word of comfort; others stood in silent, grim acceptance of what war required. An Ottoman prisoner, hands bound at the wrists, stared emptily into the distance, listening to a guard bark orders he could not understand.

Constantine's gaze passed over them, taking stock with a practiced eye. His men were exhausted, but their resolve still glinted in the way they squared their shoulders, in the way they pulled the wounded to safety. They had fought a good fight. If there was any solace in this ruin, it was that the living still had some spirit left.

"Bury our dead with honors," he said, his voice firm but tinged with unspoken sorrow. "Treat the prisoners humanely. If we are to survive this war, we must hold ourselves to a higher standard."

The council chamber was bathed in the unsteady glow of flickering candles, their shadows stretching and shifting across the aged stone walls. A map of the region lay open on the oak table, its edges curling from repeated handling, weighed down by a discarded goblet and a bronze figurine of a two-headed eagle. The air was heavy with the mingling scents of wax and damp stone, but for once, it carried the undercurrent of optimism.

Constantine stood at the head of the table, his hands braced against the edges, surveying the room. His frame was tense but resolute, his eyes sharp as they swept across the faces of his gathered officers. Andreas stood beside him, a tower of reliability, while Sforza lounged at the far corner, an infuriating smirk teasing his lips. George Sphrantzes was already seated, quill in hand, poised to record decisions—or to argue them.

"Gentlemen," Constantine began, his voice calm but deliberate, "you have earned this moment." He straightened, his gaze piercing. "Murad threw his strength at us, and we held. Not just held—we repelled. For that, every man who fought on the Hexamilion Wall deserves recognition. You have my gratitude and the gratitude of this empire."

The words were met with nods of approval, murmurs of agreement rippling around the table. Even Sforza inclined his head slightly, though his expression remained unreadable.

Andreas, always direct, spoke first. "We struck a blow they won't forget, Despot. But the question is—how do we ensure it's their last?"

Sforza chuckled softly, pushing himself upright and leaning into the conversation like a gambler smelling opportunity. "Exactly. We've bloodied their noses; now's the time to kick down the door. The Duchy of Athens is vulnerable. If we move fast, we can take it easily."

The room stirred with the weight of Sforza's words. A younger officer, clearly enthralled by the suggestion, nodded eagerly. "He's right, Despot. With Murad retreating, the momentum is ours."

George Sphrantzes cleared his throat, the sound deliberate and measured, cutting through the enthusiasm like a knife. "With respect, Captain Sforza, momentum is only useful if it doesn't run you off a cliff. We don't yet know the full state of Murad's forces. Reports suggest a retreat, but we lack confirmation. For all we know, this could be a feint."

Sforza snorted, leaning back with a grin. "Feint? We've scattered them. You'd have us sit on our hands and lose opportunities just so we can play it safe?"

George turned to Constantine, his tone calm but laced with urgency. "We must be cautious, Despot. An advance into the Duchy of Athens might gain us territory, but at what cost? Our supply lines are strained, and our men are exhausted. Overextending now risks everything we've built here."

Constantine let the silence stretch, observing the interplay with a detached intensity. He moved a marker on the map—Murad's reported retreat. The weight of leadership settled on his shoulders, a familiar burden but one that felt heavier in the presence of competing ambitions.

"And if Murad is truly retreating?" Constantine asked, his voice measured.

George met his gaze. "Then we prepare, Despot. Scouts can confirm his movements, and if Athens becomes a viable target, we can act decisively. But haste is the enemy of strategy."

Sforza muttered something in Italian under his breath but didn't press further.

Constantine folded his arms, his tone now colder, more authoritative. "We will send proper scout patrols. Until their reports return, we hold the Hexamilion. The Ottomans know we're capable of defending this land. Let them stew in their uncertainty."

George, emboldened by the pivot, seized the moment. "There is another matter, Despot. Mystras."

"Go on," Constantine said.

George rested his hand on the map, tracing the borders of the Morea with his fingertips. "Theodore has sailed for Selymbria, leaving Mystras officially under your rule, my Despot. However, you should formally assume the title of Despot of Mystras in person to strengthen your authority. They need to recognize you as their leader—claim the title in Mystras, my Despot."

Constantine considered this, his jaw tightening. "A garrison," he said finally, his voice low. "A hundred men. Loyal and disciplined. George, you will lead them. Secure the city and prepare it for my arrival."

George nodded solemnly. "It will be done, my Despot."

"And what of Athens?" Sforza pressed, unwilling to let the matter rest entirely.

Constantine fixed him with a steady gaze. "If the scouts confirm Murad's retreat, we'll consider it. But only with caution and preparation. We fight battles we can win, Captain—not wars of looting."

Sforza shrugged, the grin returning. "As you say, Despot."

The meeting dissolved shortly after, the officers departing with the kind of quiet tension that lingered after difficult choices. As George lingered behind, Constantine turned to him.

"You don't approve of Sforza," Constantine said, more a statement than a question.

George hesitated, then nodded. "He's a man of ambition, Despot. Useful in battle, but dangerous in council."

Constantine's lips curved into something resembling a smile. "Ambition can be managed. But loyalty?" He glanced at George. "That's something I trust in you."

George bowed his head. "Always, Despot."

The camp stirred with the muted rhythms of the morning. Smoke curled lazily from small fires where camp followers boiled water and stirred thin soups. The groans of the wounded blended with the muffled commands of officers directing repairs to the defensive works. The air was sharp, carrying the metallic tang of blood and the faint bitterness of burnt wood.

Constantine moved through the makeshift hospital with deliberate steps. The tent flaps barely muffled the chaos within: the rasp of saws cutting splints, the hiss of boiling water, and the low murmur of priests reciting prayers for the dying.

"Despot," Captain Andreas called softly from behind. He fell into step beside Constantine, his dark eyes scanning the surroundings like a predator wary of ambush. "The men are still somewhat shaken, but the victory has provided a significant morale boost."

"And the wounded?" Constantine asked, his voice low, more to himself than to Andreas.

"The surgeons do what they can, but…" He hesitated, then added, "But many will not see another sunrise."

Constantine paused at the entrance of the largest tent. He could see the activity inside—the hurried movements of attendants, the stained aprons of surgeons, the pale faces of the injured. His lips tightened. "Let's see."

Inside, the air was oppressive, filled with the mingling scents of sweat, blood, and boiled herbs. Constantine's gaze swept the room. A surgeon, sleeves rolled up, carefully rinsed a scalpel in steaming water—an innovation Constantine had insisted upon. At another table, a young attendant ground herbs into a poultice, his hands trembling as he worked.

"Good," Constantine murmured as he passed, his tone low enough to seem casual but sharp enough to be heard. "Clean tools save lives. Do not forget that."

The surgeon looked up, startled but not displeased. He nodded quickly and resumed his work.

Constantine stopped by a cot where a young soldier lay, his chest wrapped in bandages already beginning to stain through. The boy—he couldn't have been more than eighteen—blinked up at him, his eyes wide and glassy.

"Despot," the soldier croaked, trying to sit up.

"Stay," Constantine said gently, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "What's your name?"

"Nikos," the boy whispered. His voice cracked, whether from pain or emotion, Constantine couldn't tell. "Did… did we win?"

Constantine crouched beside him, meeting his gaze directly. "We held the wall," he said evenly. "Because of men like you, Nikos."

The boy blinked rapidly, tears pooling in his eyes. "I thought… I thought I'd never see home again."

"You will," Constantine said, his voice firm but not harsh. "You've earned that and more."

Nikos swallowed hard. "The men… they talk about the Ieros Skopos, Despot. They say… they say we fight for something holy."

Constantine's jaw tightened slightly, the words striking a chord. "We do," he said after a moment. "And it's men like you who remind us why."

He rose, patting Nikos on the arm, and moved to the edge of the tent where Andreas waited. "The talk of the Ieros Skopos—how far has it spread in the army?"

Andreas shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Far enough, my Despot. The men cling to it. Faith… purpose… it keeps them steady."

Rolling Plains near Thebes, DuskThe sun hung low, its light stretched thin over the plains as shadows crept across the terrain. Captain Giovanni crouched in the long grass atop a windswept hill, the edges of his cloak catching the faint breeze. Below, in the distance, the Ottoman army slithered northward, an endless column of wagons, cavalry, and foot soldiers moving with grim precision.

"Discipline," Giovanni murmured, mostly to himself. His voice, roughened by years of barking orders and inhaling battlefield dust, carried the weight of experience. "They're weary but not broken. Look at the rear guard."

The men around him—five scouts, hardened but quiet—followed his gaze. Below, the Ottoman Sipahi cavalry rode in tight formation, their armor catching the dying light, their spears upright like a forest of steel. They were positioned deliberately, their movements methodical, guarding the retreat as if daring anyone to strike.

One of the scouts, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a perpetual smirk, shifted uneasily. "They're crawling north, Captain. Not running. If Murad's really retreating, why bring his best to the rear?"

"Because he doesn't trust us. And he's right not to," Giovanni replied.

The men chuckled low, their camaraderie a brittle thing in the face of the vast army below.

"Let them tire," Giovanni continued, his voice dropping to a near growl. "We'll see what we can find out. For now, we wait for the light to fade."

They were halfway back to their horses when they heard it—the unmistakable clatter of hooves, too many and too close.

"Move!" Giovanni barked, his voice low but urgent.

The scouts scattered, each taking a different route through the underbrush. Giovanni led a pair of them down a narrow ravine, the moonlight barely piercing the thick canopy above. Behind them, the sound of pursuit grew louder—Ottoman cavalry, their movements precise, relentless.

Giovanni forced his horse onward, navigating the treacherous terrain with an instinct born of survival. He signaled his men to split further, each taking a path that would confuse the pursuers.

"Keep going," he hissed to the scout beside him, a younger man who looked more boy than soldier. "You'll be fine."

They doubled back twice, the sounds of hooves fading, then returning—the Ottomans relentless in their hunt. But Giovanni led his horse through a narrow pass, the walls of the ravine pressing close, before finally breaking into open ground