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—dull yet persistent—as 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—not 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—slightly 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—a 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—*who was I?*
Suddenly, memories flooded my mind—memories that didn't belong to me—stern, 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—youthful, 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—everything 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—a 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—both in metal and in spirit—is 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—I was Michael Jameston. A fifty-five-year-old American. I sold books, for God's sake.
But as I examined my hands—his hands—scarred 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—in 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—*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—*Theodora*, his wife—watched 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—a headache unlike any I'd experienced before—and 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—and 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—if I indeed was in his body—then 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—if I knew what was to come—could 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 note/The historical setting: Morea, Early 1428
In the early months of 1428, the fractured lands of Greece lay contested between ambitious powers, each vying for supremacy in a region rich in legacy and strategic importance.
The Byzantine Empire, although reduced dramatically from its former glory, maintained a resilient foothold in the Peloponnese (Morea), under the leadership of Emperor John VIII Palaiologos and his brothers. Determined to consolidate Byzantine power, John VIII launched an aggressive campaign against Carlo Tocco, the ruler of the Tocco Domains, whose territories included key strategic points like Glarentza and islands such as Zakynthos.
In a decisive clash at the Battle of the Echinades, the Byzantine fleet shattered Count Tocco's forces, effectively ending his influence within Morea. The triumph facilitated a pivotal political arrangement: a negotiated settlement culminating in the marriage of John VIII's brother, Constantine Palaiologos, to Carlo Tocco's niece. As part of her substantial dowry, Constantine acquired the vital port town of Glarentza and surrounding Tocco-controlled territories in western Morea, reinforcing Byzantine presence in the region.
At this juncture, the governance of Morea was skillfully divided among the Palaiologos brothers, each playing a critical role. Constantine Palaiologos oversaw the newly gained territories, focusing on stabilizing and fortifying his holdings against external threats. Theodore Palaiologos administered Mystras, the main town of Byzanttines in the Morea, and the regions of Messinia, Laconia, and parts of Arcadia, preserving Byzantine traditions and maintaining internal security. In the northern reaches of the Morea, their youngest brother Thomas Palaiologos managed Kalavryta, providing strategic depth and support to his siblings' territories.
Yet Morea was anything but secure. On its fringes, the powerful maritime Republic of Venice retained strategic fortresses like Modon, Coron, Nauplio, and Negroponte, maintaining a delicate tension between trade, diplomacy, and military presence. To the north, the encroaching Ottoman Empire continued its relentless expansion, regularly dispatching raids into Byzantine territories, threatening the delicate equilibrium.
Meanwhile, smaller states persisted in this precarious landscape. The Duchy of Athens, governed by the Florentine Acciaiuoli family, controlled areas surrounding Athens and Thebes, cautiously navigating between Ottoman ambitions and Venetian dominance. The Duchy of Naxos, ruled by Venetian families, retained vital island territories in the Aegean, while the fragmented Duchy of Achaia clung desperately to limited holdings like Chalandritsa and Kyparissia.
Thus, in early 1428, the stage was set—a mosaic of alliances and rivalries, ambition and survival, with the Palaiologos brothers standing resolutely amidst these turbulent tides, striving to revive the legacy of the Roman Empire and reclaim their ancestral prominence.
Last edited: Apr 1, 2025Like Award Quote Reply231
Clermont castle, Octomber 1428
Theodora slept soundly beside him, her dark hair fanning across the silk pillow in loose waves. In the gentle glow of a lone oil lamp, Michael could make out the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. Each quiet breath she drew was a soothing rhythm against the churning anxiety inside him. How can she be so at peace? he wondered. To her, this was only another night in the castle—her home, their home. But to Michael, every inch of this bedchamber felt foreign. The heavy woven coverlet, the faint scent of beeswax and smoke, even the reassuring weight of the woman at his side—all of it belonged to another man. And that man was supposed to be him.
He eased himself upright on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Theodora. A shiver prickled his skin as the cold air drifting off the stone walls seeped through his thin linen shirt. Back in his old life, he would've reached for a thermostat or burrowed under a comforter. Here, there was only the dying warmth of the hearth and the hush of a medieval night. The stillness pressed in on him, magnifying the frantic beat of his heart.
Two days. Two days had passed since he'd woken up to this impossible reality. In that time, he had grasped at every possible explanation—coma, psychotic break, even death and purgatory—only to come up empty. The truth was unavoidable: he was here, somehow, living the life of Constantine Palaiologos. And he was utterly lost. Michael closed his eyes and willed the confusion and panic to ebb, if only for a moment. He knew he couldn't go on like this, cowering in this bedchamber under the pretense of illness. I can't keep pretending, he thought, clenching the bedsheets in his fists. Hiding here solved nothing; sooner or later, he would have to face the world beyond these walls. But the thought of stepping outside—of meeting Constantine's friends, his generals, his servants—made Michael feel like a lamb being led to slaughter. How long could he fool them? How long before someone looked into his eyes and saw the stranger behind them?
A muffled dong… dong… echoed through the night—the tolling of a bell from some distant tower, marking the hour. Michael flinched; in the stillness of midnight, the sound was haunting. He glanced back over his shoulder at Theodora. She hadn't stirred, still deep in dreams. For a moment, envy flickered through him. He wondered what her dreams were tonight. He would never know. There was a gulf between them, one he was desperate and afraid to cross.
Unable to sit still any longer, Michael rose abruptly and crossed the room. The old wooden floorboards and cold stone tiles beyond felt like ice against his bare feet. The sudden chill was bracing; he almost welcomed the discomfort as proof that he wasn't trapped in some figment of his imagination. This world was real. Each cold step, each breath of frosty air was confirmation of that. Michael reached the narrow window and unlatched the shutter. With a low groan, the hinges gave way and the shutter swung outward. A gust of winter air rushed in, pricking his skin with gooseflesh and billowing the chamber's heavy drapes.
He leaned out into the night. Clermont, the castle and city now his home, sprawled below in silence. The castle grounds directly beneath were dim, lit by the sparse glow of torches along the perimeter walls. Their flames flickered valiantly against the darkness, tiny beacons of light in an otherwise black sea. Further beyond, the hills of the Morea rolled into the distance, their slopes cloaked in shadow. Here and there, in the valley, a few pinpricks of light marked villages where peasants likely tended late-night fires or kept watch over sick livestock. The scents of the night drifted up to him: woodsmoke, pine from the forests, a hint of the crisp ocean breeze blowing from the distant coast. It was a beautiful, serene scene—and yet it felt utterly wrong to him. This is not my world, he wanted to scream, I don't belong here!
He inhaled deeply, letting the cold night air fill his lungs. It smelled of earth and ash, so different from the pollution-tinged city air he was used to. The sharp chill burned his throat for a moment, grounding him. As he exhaled, Michael closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the stone window frame. The solid, chill stone pressed into his skin, anchoring him. Think, Michael. Don't fall apart. He had to gather himself. Hiding away and trembling like a frightened animal would not change the reality. He was Constantine now, whether he liked it or not; the sooner he confronted that, the better.
Yet, acknowledging it was one thing—living it was another. Michael's gaze dropped to his hands braced on the windowsill. In the moonlight, he could see the calluses on the palms, the old half-healed scars crisscrossing the knuckles. These were the hands of a warrior, not a salesman. He turned them over slowly, marveling at the strength in the corded muscles of his forearms and the unfamiliar old wound—a pale slash of a scar—running from wrist to elbow. Constantine had earned that scar in battle, no doubt. The memory of how flickered at the edges of Michael's mind, just out of reach. Sometimes, fragments of Constantine's life drifted up unbidden—a burst of anger at the sight of a particular coat of arms or the vivid recollection of riding a horse through these very hills weeks ago. Michael shuddered; the mingling of memory and reality made him feel as if he were dissolving into this identity, piece by piece.
He gripped the stone tighter. How long can I keep this up? he wondered. How long before a slip of the tongue or a moment of confusion gave him away? Perhaps a forgotten name of a servant he should know, or a misstep in addressing a noble… The prospect of being discovered for what he truly was—a fraud, an imposter—terrified him. In this age, claims of possession or witchcraft could be deadly. If he failed to convince people he was Constantine, what fate would that earn him? A prison cell? The executioner's blade? He swallowed hard, throat dry. The irony wasn't lost on him: he had always felt somewhat invisible in his old life, an ordinary man trudging through middle age. Now the idea of truly being seen—and recognized as an imposter—was more frightening than anything he'd ever known.
Michael's thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the life he'd left behind—those details of another world that felt more like a fading dream with each passing hour. An ache bloomed in his chest as images of his family came rushing forward. What happened to my body back home? Did it lie comatose in a hospital bed, eyes closed to the world, while baffled doctors tried to determine what was wrong? Could his ex-wife, Ellen, and their two sons be gathered at his bedside this very moment, trading hopeful smiles and praying for him to wake? Or perhaps—his stomach twisted at the thought—perhaps he had simply vanished from his time, leaving behind only questions and heartbreak. Would they think he had abandoned them?
He braced his hands on the sill as a wave of longing and guilt washed over him. Jason… Nick… He could see them so clearly it hurt. Jason, his firstborn, was thirty now—independent and determined, always charging forward. Michael remembered the last phone call with him a few weeks before all this happened. "Dad, I'm just swamped right now," Jason had said, voice hurried. "I'll visit once things settle down, promise." Then a rushed goodbye and the line went dead. Michael had chuckled at the time, shaking his head at how busy his son was, figuring there would always be another day, another chance to talk at length. Now that casual dismissal felt like a knife of regret. Would there be another day? Jason had always been so eager to conquer the world; he seldom looked back... would he even notice that his father was gone? Would he regret those missed phone calls if Michael never returned?
Nick, his younger boy, was so different—gentle, introspective, an old soul at twenty-five. Michael's throat tightened as he remembered the sight of Nick curled up in the armchair by the living room window on rainy evenings, a thick novel in one hand and a mug of cocoa in the other. Sometimes Michael would join him, both of them quietly sharing the space, the only sound the soft patter of rain and the rustle of turning pages. Father and son, lost in their own worlds yet together in comfortable silence. Those moments were rare treasures, even if they hadn't seemed so then. Did I ever tell him how much I loved those times? Michael wondered, tears pricking at his eyes. He could almost smell the rich chocolate and hear the rain if he let himself drift in the memory. Had he taken it all for granted, assuming he'd have countless tomorrows to sit with Nick, to see him smile that shy smile as he talked about the latest book he'd read? A shuddering breath escaped Michael's lips. I may never get the chance now.
And Ellen… Michael's thoughts turned to his ex-wife, stirring up a complicated mix of emotions. There was a time when her laughter had been his favorite sound. He could still picture the way she'd throw back her head when something truly delighted her, dark curls bouncing and eyes sparkling with mirth. That image was from long ago, back when they were young and the world was open before them. In recent years, their interactions have been strained, and they have been reduced to polite conversations about the boys or awkward exchanges on birthdays and holidays. Their last talk had ended with a hollow promise to "catch up soon" that neither truly meant. Ellen had moved on—he knew that. She had her career, a new circle of friends, perhaps even someone new to love. Michael had made peace with that, or so he thought. Yet now, in this silent medieval night, he felt a pang of loss sharper than he ever expected. Ellen was part of the life that had been his, the life that was now irretrievably gone. Would she grieve for him, if he never woke up in that other world? Or would his disappearance merely be a brief disturbance in her busy life? He suspected it might take weeks before she even realized he was missing; they just weren't entwined in each other's daily lives anymore. The realization stung more than it should. Maybe she'll think I ran away, he reflected bitterly. Just decided to disappear. It wasn't fair to her—or himself—but a dark voice in his mind whispered that perhaps she'd be relieved to be free of any remaining obligations tying her to her ex-husband.
Michael let out a soft, miserable sigh and bowed his head. His family, his home, the very era of conveniences and customs he understood—it was all slipping through his fingers like sand. "What does any of it matter now?" he whispered under his breath. The sound of his own voice—low, rougher than he remembered—echoed faintly in the chamber. In the stillness, it almost sounded like someone else had spoken. He grimaced at the irony. The 21st century is out of reach, he thought. All the people he loved, all the things he knew… he might as well be an entire world away. In fact, he was centuries away. And yet, they refused to let him go. How was he supposed to focus on surviving in this strange medieval world when half of his soul was still mourning the one he'd lost?
Behind him, he heard the rustle of sheets and a soft moan. Michael stiffened, quickly wiping at his eyes. He turned to see Theodora shifting in their bed. She reached out with one hand, perhaps seeking the warmth of her husband that had been next to her moments ago. Finding nothing but empty, cool sheets, she stirred fully awake. In the semidarkness, Michael saw her push herself up onto one elbow, her long hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her face was in shadow, but he could imagine the gentle crease of concern on her brow.
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—Constantine's wife—looked 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 grandmother's voice echoed in his memory then, reciting stories of Byzantium's last stands. He could almost see her hands gesturing vividly as she painted pictures of glittering domes, grand processions, fierce battles. Look, Grandma, he thought with a bitter smile, I'm here. I'm really here—just like your tales. Too bad there's nothing heroic about any of it.
He heard the faint howling of the wind outside the tower walls and imagined the conflicts brewing out there. The Ottomans. The future. Twenty-five years or less until doomsday. What difference can I make? A salesman with only a patchy grasp of actual history—no illusions about that—he was hardly a mighty general or a brilliant political thinker. Yet he alone knew what was coming.
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—his family, job, modern comforts—was gone. But he still had something. He had knowledge. He could use that. He had to use it.
As he slipped back under the heavy blankets, Theodora murmured something wordless and nestled closer, warm and familiar in the predawn chill. Tucked against the pillow, Michael closed his eyes. Sleep hovered restlessly on the edge of his mind, full of unwanted memories and hopes that both soothed and tormented him. But for now, at least, he let exhaustion carry him off. In the fragile space between fear and resolve, he drifted to a troubled slumber, bracing himself for all that would come with the morning light.
Historical note:
List of the Palaiologos family in 1428, highlighting their territories:
1. Emperor John VIII Palaiologos (1392)
- Role: Reigning Emperor of the Byzantine Empire based in Constantinople.
- Controlled: Constantinople and its surrounding areas.
Considered unification between the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic Churches to gain support, showing a pragmatic approach.
2. Constantine Palaiologos (Constantine XI) (1404)
- Role: Co- Despot of the Morea.
- Controlled: Regions of Elis and Arcadia in the Morea, with his base at the Castle of Clermont near the port town of Clarentza.
3. Theodore II Palaiologos (1396)
- Role: Despot of the Morea.
- Controlled: Territories of Messinia, Laconia, and parts of Arcadia, including Mystras, the cultural and political capital of the Morea.
Deeply religious/Against unification between the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic Churches.
4. Thomas Palaiologos (1409)
- Role: Co-Despot of the Morea.
- Controlled: The strategic region of Kalavryta in northern Morea, known for its mountainous terrain.
5. Demetrios Palaiologos (1407)
- Role: Largely based in Constantinople during this period; involved in the empire's political and military strategies.
6. Andronikos Palaiologos (1400)
- Role: Former ruler of Thessalonica, who had transferred the city to Venetian control to protect it from the Ottomans. Returned to Constantinople and became a monk, known for his fragile health.
Additional Notes:
- Shared Responsibilities: All Morea Despots were involved in the defense of the Hexamilion Wall guarding the Isthmus of Corinth. Theodore held a higher command in coordinating its defense.Last edited: Apr 5, 2025Like Award Reply194sersorOct 2, 2024Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter Three: The Weight of Expectations View contentsersorOct 2, 2024Add bookmark#3It was the third morning since I had awakened in this body—since fate cast me as Constantine Palaiologos, Despot of the Morea. By now, I knew I could no longer hide behind the pretense of illness. My two days of enforced solitude in the austere chambers of Clermont Castle had run their course. The lords and courtiers beyond my door were growing restless; no further feigned weakness could hold them at bay.
I lingered a moment in the semi-darkness of my chamber, gathering my nerve. A single narrow window let in a slant of gray dawn light, illuminating barren stone walls and a simple wooden crucifix hung above a hard narrow bed. A young attendant arrived at first light with an ewer of hot water and laid out the garments I was expected to wear. With his help, I donned the elaborate attire piece by piece, trying not to gape at each brocaded layer. A long tunic of deep crimson silk, heavy with golden embroidery, fell to my calves. Over that went a velvet mantle trimmed in ermine fur, clasped at my shoulder by a jeweled brooch. I fumbled with an ornate leather belt, uncertain how to fasten it, until the servant stepped forward to discreetly guide the buckle into place. His eyes remained respectfully lowered, but I still felt a flush of embarrassment at needing help with something as simple as dressing. The weight of the cloak and the unfamiliar tightness of the high collar made me stand stiffly. I forced myself to straighten my shoulders. This is how a Despot dresses, I reminded myself, and this is how a Despot must carry himself.
Just as I reached for the door latch, a soft knock sounded. Before I could respond, the door creaked open and Theodora stepped inside. She was a vision of modest nobility—draped in a gown of midnight blue damask, with a gauzy veil of cream-colored silk covering her braided hair. A jeweled crucifix rested against her bosom. Her hands were folded primly at her waist, but I could see tension in the way she clasped them.
The moment Theodora's eyes met mine, they lit with relief. "Constantine—" she breathed, her voice low and earnest. "Thanks be to God, you are up and about." She moved toward me, and I noticed a faint tremble in her composure that betrayed how worried she had been. "These past two days, I have prayed incessantly for your health. Seeing you on your feet eases my heart more than you know."
I managed a gentle smile and inclined my head to her. "Theodora… I am sorry to have caused you worry," I said quietly. My tongue stumbled for a moment, unsure if Constantine would have used an endearment or a formal address for his wife. In the end, I simply repeated, "I'm truly sorry. I assure you I feel much improved now."
She came closer and reached up as if to touch my forehead, checking for fever like a concerned spouse. I had to resist the instinct to flinch at the unfamiliar intimacy. Her cool fingers brushed my brow for an instant, then she let her hand rest lightly on my forearm. I gently laid my hand over hers, hoping the gesture seemed natural for a husband. The soft fabric of her sleeve and the warmth of her skin were oddly grounding.
"There is no need for apology," Theodora said kindly. Her lips curved in a small smile, though worry still lingered in her dark eyes. "I am simply glad your sickness has passed. You must take care not to overexert yourself today." She paused, her gaze searching my face. In that moment I wondered if she sensed anything different about me. Could she see that the man before her was not truly her Constantine? If the thought crossed her mind, she gave no sign.
Her words were meant to encourage, but they only underscored the pressure looming over me. I replied, trying to sound confident. "Rest assured, I am ready to do what must be done."
Two attendants who had been stationed just outside instantly dropped into low bows at my appearance. One was an older steward in a neat tunic, the other a young guardsman in half-armor. Farther down the passage, I glimpsed a pair of courtiers who had been lingering in whispered conversation. At the sound of my door, they fell silent and turned; upon seeing me, they, too, inclined their heads deeply. It struck me that they had likely been hovering here out of concern or curiosity, waiting to glimpse their recovering lord.
I cleared my throat and inclined my head in return, acknowledging their bows without stopping. I remembered not to smile too much, nor to appear too hurried. Measured steps, chin up, just as a leader should, I instructed myself. Best to maintain an air of composed dignity and let them believe I was every bit the Constantine they expected.
As I made my way down the corridor, the cold air of the castle hall grazed my face, helping to wake me fully. Clermont Castle was austere and imposing in the morning gloom. High, vaulted ceilings loomed overhead, and the walls were bare stone except for an occasional banner depicting double-headed eagles. My footsteps echoed against the stones with an unnerving loudness as if to announce the approach of authority—whether I felt like that authority or not.
Squaring my shoulders once more, I continued down the corridor. I had nearly reached the arcaded gallery leading toward the council chamber when I turned a corner and almost collided with a robed figure coming the other way. I halted, startled, and took a half-step back.
It was George Sphrantzes, Constantine's closest advisor and friend—now my advisor, whether I was ready or not. He was a lean man of about thirty, with carefully groomed dark hair and a short beard that framed a thoughtful, serious face. Upon recognizing me, Sphrantzes immediately dropped to one knee in a deep bow.
"Despot," he greeted me, his head still inclined low, his tone composed yet penetrating. "Your Radiance, it brings considerable relief to see you recovered at last. Your absence has caused... considerable speculation."
His voice was calm and measured, yet I detected a current of genuine relief in it. He rose from his bow and studied me with a careful gaze, as if examining my posture and complexion for any lingering sign of illness. Though his demeanor was respectful, I caught a wary gleam in his eyes, as though he were searching my face for something – perhaps the familiar assurance of the Constantine he knew.
I realized I must speak and quickly gathered myself. "Good morning, Sphrantzes," I said, making sure to use a firm tone. "I am feeling much better." I offered a small, reassuring smile. "Thanks to the Almighty, I seem to have shaken off that malady."
Sphrantzes straightened fully and released a soft breath that might have been a sigh of relief.
"Indeed, thanks be to God," he echoed carefully. "The court was beginning to whisper, though none dared openly speculate in my presence. Theodora and the entire court have been praying fervently for your health. I assured them repeatedly you were merely unwell, nothing more... complicated."
He hesitated a moment, and I sensed he was choosing his words carefully.
"If you are ready, Your Lordship, shall I inform the council to assemble? Your nobles have grown rather restless—there are delicate matters awaiting your immediate judgment."
A pang of anxiety shot through me at the thought of all those lords waiting to finally meet their new Despot. I clasped my hands behind me to hide a slight tremor in my fingers. "Yes… of course," I replied. "We have kept them waiting long enough."
Sphrantzes gave a brisk nod. "Very good, Despot." He paused, then continued in a quieter voice meant only for me.
"As you instructed before your illness, I prepared a thorough report on those... pressing state concerns. Everything is ready, as discreetly as possible, of course. Whenever it suits your convenience, we can speak privately to ensure you have all necessary details. One misstep could weaken your position at a crucial moment."
I felt my stomach flip. Reports? Matters of state I requested? Constantine's recollections stirred faintly in the back of my mind, but I could not immediately recall the specifics. The past two days I had been so preoccupied with simply orienting myself in this body that I hadn't delved into whatever plans Constantine had already set in motion. I knew Sphrantzes expected me to remember, and the last thing I wanted was to raise his suspicions by asking blankly what he meant. I needed to tread carefully.
"Yes… the reports," I echoed, buying myself a moment as my heart began to thud harder. In that moment, a cold realization washed over me: this would be the first time Constantine (and thus I) presided over a council of the local nobility. He had only recently taken control of the Despotate, so many of these men had never met him before. This council was essentially their first full introduction to their new ruler. They would scrutinize everything—my words, my decisions, even my demeanor—for signs of what kind of leader I might be.
I could feel the weight of Sphrantzes' expectant gaze and knew I had to respond decisively. Forcing a confident smile, I inclined my head. "Thank you for gathering those, my friend." The word friend slipped out naturally, though I was uncertain if Constantine would have used it so freely. Sphrantzes didn't seem to mind; if anything, his expression softened a touch. "I regret my illness interrupted our plans, especially at such a sensitive juncture. Let us waste no further time. The council will convene shortly." I cleared my throat, then added in as steady a voice as I could muster, "Remind me— which of those matters requires our immediate attention? We shall address the most urgent first."
There was a brief, almost imperceptible pause. Sphrantzes raised one eyebrow ever so slightly. I realized too late that my question might have sounded odd; Constantine should have already known which issue was most urgent. But if Sphrantzes found it strange, he was too tactful to show it openly. He folded his hands and dutifully answered my question.
"Of course, Despot," he said, inclining his head smoothly. "Above all else, I strongly advise addressing the state of our fortifications immediately."
"Fortifications?" I repeated, trying to recall. Yes—images flickered in my mind of battlements and walls… Constantine had indeed been worried about the state of some castle defenses here. I nodded for Sphrantzes to continue.
He spoke crisply, as if delivering a prepared report. "Our defensive situation is precarious. Clermont's outer ramparts have been neglected for years, leaving us dangerously exposed. Our scouts report increased Ottoman activity. Certain lords suggest reinforcing immediately, while others believe our limited soldiers would be better deployed in patrols along the frontier passes. A difficult strategic choice—but crucially necessary. Your decisive voice will quell dissent and secure loyalty."
As he talked, fragments of Constantine's memory began slotting into place. Yes—the Ottomans. Constantine had indeed been worried about Ottoman incursions into the Morea. The mention of Turks caused a chill to run through me for more than one reason. But I had to focus on the present problem. Sphrantzes was still explaining.
"Some of our advisors suggest immediately diverting resources and manpower to shore up the western ramparts of Clermont," he continued. "Others argue that our limited troops would be better used patrolling the mountain passes along the frontier. It is a difficult allocation of resources, and your decision on this is eagerly awaited."
I pressed my lips together thoughtfully, trying to appear deep in concentration while panic churned inside me. Fortifications… Ottomans… This was no trivial matter. Lives hung in the balance depending on what I decided. I rifled through Constantine's memories for anything relevant: perhaps a recent conversation about the state of the armory, or a map of the defenses. I got flashes—an image of Constantine inspecting a crumbling section of wall, a memory of a debate about whether to request engineers from Constantinople—but nothing concrete enough to give me the plan Constantine had intended.
I had inherited many of his broad experiences—visions of battles, the sense of commanding men, the faces of his brothers and allies. But the finer details, the day-to-day knowledge that a ruler needs—those things were like loose, unattached threads. I grasped at them and came up empty. I knew enough to seem like Constantine in broad strokes, but not enough to truly be him when it came to specifics.
I realized Sphrantzes was watching me closely, awaiting my response. I could feel the concern behind his courteous mask. I must have hesitated a beat too long. Gathering myself, I drew in a breath and gave what I hoped was a decisive nod. "Very well. The question of fortifications and patrols is indeed critical," I said, choosing my words with care. "We shall address it directly in the council, with all voices heard, before I render a decision. In the meantime, ensure that any relevant documents or accounts—maps of the defenses, reports from our border scouts—are brought to the council chamber. I want everything ready for our discussion."
My answer was deliberately non-committal, but I delivered it with a tone of authority, as if I had already been pondering the problem. It would buy me a little time to hear what others recommended once the council was in session. I only hoped it sounded like something Constantine would say.
Sphrantzes bowed again, one hand over his chest. "As you command, Despot," he replied. His obedience was immediate, but I did not miss the slight furrow of his brow as he bent his head. Was that a flicker of doubt I saw? Did he find my response oddly vague? Or perhaps he was simply relieved that I was taking charge again after my absence. I couldn't be sure. By the time he straightened up, his expression was once more neutral and professional.
"I shall see to it at once," Sphrantzes continued. "The council chamber will be prepared for your arrival, and the lords summoned." He allowed himself the ghost of a cautious smile. "It is good to have you well again, my Despot."
"And it is good to be back," I lied smoothly. In truth, I felt anything but "well"—my mind was still racing and my palms were damp inside Constantine's embroidered gloves. But I returned his smile with what confidence I could fake. "Thank you, Sphrantzes. I will join you all shortly."
He dipped his head respectfully. "Very good. I shall inform the others." With that, Sphrantzes took a step back, then pivoted on his heel. He did not turn his back fully to me until he had withdrawn a few paces—an old court etiquette, never to turn your back on a prince. I watched him stride briskly down the corridor, his dark blue cloak fluttering behind him, until he disappeared around the next bend.
The moment he was gone, I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My composure cracked, just for an instant, as I raked a hand through my hair. That was close. I had managed to navigate the exchange without raising alarm, I hoped, but the real test was yet to come.
I had bought myself only a few minutes' respite at best. Very soon, I would have to walk into that council chamber and sit at the head of the table as a Despot of the Morea. Half a dozen, perhaps a dozen, noblemen and military officers would be arrayed before me, awaiting my judgments on matters great and small. They would expect Constantine—the real Constantine—to lead them with confidence and wisdom. They would expect decisive answers, commands issued, problems solved.
I pressed my back against the stone wall and closed my eyes briefly, feeling a tremor of fear roll through me. How in heaven's name am I going to do this? If I misspoke, if I stumbled, if I gave a nonsensical order… they would notice. And then? What will they do if they realize their Despot is… not himself?
I bit down on the inside of my cheek, willing the surge of panic to ebb. No. I can't afford those doubts now. I stood up straight, adjusted the drape of the fur-lined mantle around my shoulders, and forced myself to take steady breaths. One step at a time. Get through the council meeting. Listen more than you speak. Use what you do know. Perhaps I could even turn my lack of specific knowledge into an advantage by inviting my councilors to give their opinions first. Yes—that might be the way. Let them talk, let Sphrantzes and the others lay out options, and glean what I needed from them before deciding. That was something a wise ruler might do anyway.
They didn't know me yet, these lords of Morea. In a sense, that was a blessing. If I behaved oddly, they might simply chalk it up to first-day-in-power jitters or lingering effects of illness. I would only have this one grace period, though. Soon enough, by my words and deeds, they would come to know their new Despot—for better or worse. And that thought absolutely terrified me.
Clenching my jaw, I banished that thought and moved forward. As long as necessary, I decided. I would maintain this pretense for as long as I had to—one day, one hour at a time.
For now, that would have to be enough. And with that, I strode on toward the awaiting council, every step a prayer that I could indeed live up to the weight of their expectations.Last edited: Apr 2, 2025Like Award Reply169sersorOct 2, 2024Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter Four: Fragile World View contentsersorOct 3, 2024Add bookmark#4After 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—a 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—the 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 —this 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 —two 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—didn'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.**
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—a 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—the 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—this woman—trusted 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—**Michael 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—a mix of pity and responsibility that settled like a stone.Like Award Reply165
3, 2024Add bookmark#8A 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 —the 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—the 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—so 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—affairs 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. "Despot," he greeted me, his voice composed yet subtly probing. "The council has gathered, awaiting your guidance. The lords are eager... perhaps too eager."
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... preoccupied today, my Despot," George ventured carefully. "Something troubles your mind?"
I nodded, though I wasn't entirely sure. "These are challenging times," I replied carefully. "I've been reflecting on our position—our holdings, our future."
George nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed, the lands of Elis and Arcadia offer much, but the Ottomans watch us keenly, and the nobility... well, they remain wary. And your brothers... their eyes are never far."
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."
George nodded in approval before stepping forward. "My Despot, Elis and Arcadia are rich in resources, but vulnerable. Poor harvests plague the villages, roads hinder our merchants, and the defenses of Clermont Castle waver."
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, "Somewhere between sixty and eighty thousand souls, my lord. Hard to pin down numbers when men chase bread elsewhere.
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: "Another 2,000 ducats remain reserved, Despot—funds prudently set aside earlier."
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—if 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?"
"We need to improve irrigation," I said firmly. "We can build aqueducts or deepen the wells in the worst-hit villages."
Silence. Some of the lords exchanged glances. Nikolas cleared his throat. "Aqueducts, Despot? Noble plans, but costly, slow, and thirsty for silver."
Sphrantzes leaned in slightly, voice calm but pointed. "Ambitious, my lord, though perhaps first we clear existing wells. Quicker results will reassure the peasants of your decisive action."
"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."
Silence. A few of the lords exchanged glances.
Nikolas, his fingers drumming lightly on the table, cleared his throat. "A prudent choice, Despot. But resources are not endless. The merchants have already petitioned for road repairs, claiming that poor trade routes are hurting commerce. If we direct funds toward irrigation first, they will see it as favoritism toward the farmers."
Markos, younger and sharper, leaned forward. "Yet, if we put roads ahead of irrigation, the villagers will grumble that we fatten purses while they go hungry." He gave a pointed smile. "Either way, someone leaves this chamber dissatisfied."
I felt the weight of their words settle over me. It made sense—every coin spent was a coin taken from somewhere else.
Sphrantzes spoke at last, his voice measured. "Villages without water perish quickly, merchants may wait a little longer. Priorities must be set clearly."
I exhaled slowly, adjusting my approach. "Then we begin with irrigation in the villages most affected by the drought. But as soon as we stabilize those, we divert attention to the roads. I want a report on which routes are most critical for trade—those will be the first repaired."
Nikolas inclined his head slightly, but his fingers still tapped against the table—a quiet, restless beat. "A balanced approach, Despot. We shall see how it sits with those affected." He let the words linger. "Farmers pray for water, but merchants count their losses in coin. And they have long memories."
Markos smirked but said nothing.
Sensing the moment had passed, I pressed forward. "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 carefully. I knew the merchants were powerful, but just how much could they pressure me? Could I afford to delay the roads? If they grew too unhappy, they could turn to Venetian or Genoese intermediaries instead of relying on local trade.
"We'll prioritize repairing the main trade routes first," I said. "Start with the roads between Clermont and the larger towns—the ones that bring in the most revenue. Once we have those in order, we'll extend repairs to the more remote villages."
Markos let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Spoken like a ruler who understands coin. Merchants speak louder than starving peasants."
Nikolas's expression was harder to read. "And the villages?"
Sphrantzes leaned back, watching me. He wouldn't answer this one for me—I had to own it.
I met Nikolas's gaze. "The villages will see results in time. The treasury cannot fix everything at once. For now, we focus on what brings the greatest stability to the region."
Nikolas studied me for a moment, then finally gave a slow nod.
The murmurs around the table weren't immediate agreement, but they weren't outright rejection either. A compromise had been struck—for now.
George cleared his throat. "Defense remains a pressing issue, Despot. Clermont's western walls crumble slowly, patrols along borders thin dangerously. Bandits nip at our edges—mere irritants now, but unchecked threats grow swiftly."
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 gave a satisfied nod. "Sound strategy, my lord. Stability demands both vigilance and fortification."
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—minor 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 lords left the chamber, I exhaled, rolling my shoulders. It had gone well, hadn't it?
Sphrantzes remained seated, watching me with a look I couldn't quite read. "You handled the council deftly today," he noted quietly.
"But?" I prompted.
He took a sip of wine. "But we shall see, Despot. Not all consequences reveal themselves in a single day."
I nodded, though the weight of it all still pressed down on me. Beyond the closed doors, I could hear the faint murmur of voices—low, measured, deliberate.Last edited: Apr 2, 2025Like Award