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Hexamilion wall, April 1432

The council chamber bore the unmistakable marks of war—a scarred map sprawled across the oak table, the edges curling from the heat of wax-sealed reports. Constantine stood near the hearth, the flicker of flames casting restless shadows on his face. The lines of exhaustion etched on his features seemed deeper now, his eyes fixed on the brass markers scattered across the map as though staring down the Ottoman retreat.

Captain Andreas leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his broad shoulders blotting out part of the torchlight. His scarred face was unreadable, though the tension in his jaw betrayed the weariness of a man who had seen too much death. Giovanni Sforza, meanwhile, paced the chamber with the lazy grace of a predator, his spurred boots tapping a slow, rhythmic cadence on the stone floor. The air between the three men was heavy, the silence broken only by the crackle of fire and the faint whistle of the night wind.

"Well?" Constantine finally said, his voice low and steady as his eyes flicked toward Andreas. "What did the scouts see?"

"They're leaving, thats for sure my Despot." Andreas replied, his tone flat. He pushed off the wall and stepped closer to the table, the light revealing streaks of grime still clinging to his armor. "Murad's main force is heading north. Back to Edirne, most likely. They've left a rear guard—organized, but thin."

Constantine's gaze sharpened. "Not a rout, then. Deliberate."

"Aye," Andreas said, nodding grimly. "They're retreating on their own terms. Consolidating, not fleeing."

Sforza snorted, the sound as dismissive as the smirk curling his lips. "Call it what you will—running is running. And we'd be fools not to take advantage."

Constantine didn't rise to the bait, but his eyes lingered on Sforza. The mercenary captain stopped his pacing, folding his arms with a flourish of black leather and steel. "You know what I'm going to say, Despot," Sforza began, his tone oozing confidence. "They're pulling back to regroup, sure. But they'll come back—and next time, they'll bring hell. Unless we bring it to them first."

"And you suggest we storm Edirne?" Constantine asked, his voice dry but pointed.

Sforza barked a short laugh. "Not Edirne. Athens." He stepped closer, gesturing at the map, his gloved hand hovering over the city. "That bootlicker Antonio Acciaioli threw in with Murad. He let his duchy act as a staging ground. If we take Athens now, we don't just punish him—we cut off a key Ottoman vassal."

Andreas exchanged a glance with Constantine, his expression cautious. "Athens is tempting, I won't deny that," he said. "But our men are battered. They've earned rest, not another campaign."

Sforza shrugged, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. "Rest won't matter much if they're dead next spring. The Ottomans won't wait forever."

Constantine let the room settle into uneasy silence. His fingers hovered above the map, tracing the faintly inked borders of Athens. The flames in the hearth guttered, and for a moment, his face was obscured in shadow. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm.

"Antonio needs to answer for his betrayal," he said. "And Athens is a prize we can't afford to leave in enemy hands. The duchy of Athens could serve as a expanded buffer zone."

Andreas straightened, his brow furrowing. "Despot, the men are loyal. They'll march if you order it. But there's a cost. Every mile we push, every siege we mount—it thins our strength."

"We don't need brute force to take Athens," Sforza interjected, his tone almost casual. "Their defenses are old. Antonio's men won't hold if we apply the right pressure—especially if we whisper promises of amnesty."

Constantine's eyes flicked toward Sforza, studying him in silence. Finally, he nodded, his movements deliberate. "We move against Athens," he said, his voice cutting through the room like steel. "But this won't be a reckless march. Andreas, ready the troops. We'll need supplies, siege equipment, and scouts along the way."

"And what of the men, Despot?" Andreas asked. "They'll follow, but you know as well as I do that morale is a fragile thing."

Constantine's gaze drifted to the edge of the map, where the words Ieros Skopos were faintly scrawled—a reminder of the holy cause he had carefully cultivated. "They'll follow," he said, his voice steady. "They've seen what unity can achieve. We'll remind them that this isn't just a campaign—it's a step toward something greater."

Sforza smirked, tipping an imaginary hat. "A speech like that, and they'll follow you into hell."

The camp stirred to life in the gray half-light of dawn, the heavy mist clinging to the valley like the ghosts of fallen soldiers. Fires smoldered low, their embers glowing faintly, as soldiers moved among the tents with the slow deliberation of men who had seen many battles and knew they would see more before long.

Constantine stood at the edge of the camp, his gaze fixed on the horizon, where the road to Megara disappeared into the rolling hills. His armor felt heavier this morning, though he wore only the breastplate. The weight wasn't metal—it was the knowledge of what lay ahead. Behind him, the muted clamor of preparations echoed through the still air: the groan of carts being loaded, the rhythmic clang of hammers as smiths made last-minute repairs to swords and buckles.

Captain Andreas approached, his boots crunching on the frost-hardened ground. He carried his helm under one arm, the scars on his face catching the pale light. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but Constantine could sense the tension radiating from him.

"They're nearly ready, Despot," Andreas said. His voice was steady, pragmatic, but there was a note of something else—hesitation, perhaps, or caution.

Constantine turned slightly, enough to meet Andreas's gaze. "And the mood?"

Andreas exhaled, his breath clouding in the cold air. "Tense. Some are eager to march—those who believe in the Ieros Skopos. Others… they wonder if this campaign is worth it. The veterans know what a siege means."

"It means victory," Constantine said, though his voice lacked the steel he might have intended. He turned fully now, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword. "This is necessary, Andreas. You know that as well as I do."

Andreas nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Necessary, yes. But that doesn't make it easy."

Before Constantine could reply, the sound of spurred boots announced Giovanni Sforza's arrival. The mercenary captain strode toward them, his cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a dark bird. He stopped just short of the two men, his ever-present smirk firmly in place.

"Your army's assembled, Despot," Sforza said, his tone dripping with sardonic cheer. "A bit ragged around the edges, perhaps, but they'll march."

Constantine arched a brow. "You sound unusually optimistic, Giovanni."

Sforza grinned. "Let's call it a professional assessment."

Constantine shot him a hard look but nodded. "Sound the call. We leave within the hour."

The road to Megara was hard-packed and rutted from years of trade and war, winding its way through hills and olive groves that seemed untouched by time. The army stretched in a long, uneven line, the creak of wagons mingling with the rhythmic tramp of boots. Constantine rode at the head of the column, his horse's breath steaming in the crisp air. Beside him, Andreas kept a watchful eye on the landscape, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword.

Sforza rode slightly behind, his posture relaxed, but his eyes scanned the horizon with the practiced ease of a man who had spent his life searching for ambushes.

The faint outline of Megara was just visible in the distance, its low buildings clustered beneath the shadow of the hills. Smoke curled lazily from a handful of chimneys, a sign of life that seemed strangely at odds with the tension in the air.

As they drew closer, a small group of figures emerged from the town, walking slowly toward the column. They carried no weapons, only a makeshift banner bearing the emblem of the Ieros Skopos. The man at their head was middle-aged priest, his weathered face lined with equal parts hope and fear.

Constantine reined in his horse, motioning for the column to halt. The army came to a clattering stop, the soldiers falling silent as the delegation approached.

The man bowed deeply, his voice trembling slightly as he spoke. "Despot Constantine. We welcome you to Megara. Our town stands ready to aid your cause, as best we can."

Constantine dismounted, his boots crunching on the gravel as he stepped forward. "Your aid is appreciated," he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "We march for Athens, to secure this land and protect its people. Those who stand with us will not be forgotten."

The man nodded, relief flickering across his face. "Many here wish to join your ranks, Despot. The Ieros Skopos has inspired them."

Behind him, Sforza muttered something under his breath, too low for anyone but Andreas to hear. Andreas shot him a warning glance but said nothing.

"Send them forward," Constantine said. "We'll see to it that they're equipped and ready."

Constantine remounted, his expression unreadable as the column began to move again. The cheers of the townsfolk followed them as they passed through Megara, the shouts of "Ieros Skopos!" ringing out like a battle cry.

Sforza rode closer, his smirk firmly in place. "You've got a knack for this, Despot. Inspiring the common folk with talk of holy missions and greater causes. Let's hope it lasts."

Constantine's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead. "Haha, trust me it will last as long as it needs to. Thats barely the beginning."

The sun hung low over the Attic plain, casting a golden haze over the landscape as Constantine's army emerged from the hills. The first sight of Athens halted the column in its tracks. Soldiers muttered among themselves, their voices hushed, as though the ancient city demanded reverence even in its diminished state. The Acropolis rose above the sprawl of houses like a defiant sentinel, its marble gleaming in the fading light.

Constantine sat astride his horse at the front, his eyes locked on the citadel. The grandeur of the Parthenon, weathered by centuries but still commanding, seemed to taunt him with its indifference to the ambitions of men. At his side, Captain Andreas shifted in his saddle, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.

"Impressive," Andreas murmured, his voice subdued. "Even now, it feels untouched by time."

"Time touches everything," Constantine replied, his tone clipped. He turned to the riders behind him. "Giovanni."

Sforza urged his horse forward, his dark cloak billowing in the breeze. His expression was unreadable, though the glint in his eye betrayed his ever-present appetite for a challenge.

"A fortress fit for a king," Sforza said, his voice laced with mockery. "Shame it belongs to a coward."

"Not for long," Constantine said. He gestured toward the Acropolis, where figures moved along the walls. "What do you see?"

Sforza squinted, his practiced gaze sweeping over the defenses. "Banners of Acciaioli. A garrison, but not a large one. They're expecting a siege, but they're not ready for one."

Constantine nodded, his mind already calculating. "We make camp here. Blockade the city. No one in or out."

As the orders rippled through the ranks, the army stirred into motion. Tents sprang up across the plain like mushrooms after a rain, and the clamor of hammers and shouted commands filled the air. From his vantage point, Constantine watched the Acropolis, his thoughts turning to the Duke of Athens. Antonio I Acciaioli had chosen his side, and now he would pay the price.

The first week of the siege unfolded with grim efficiency. Byzantine cannons, positioned with painstaking care, opened fire on the ancient walls, their thunderous roars echoing across the plain. Each impact sent tremors through the Acropolis, shaking loose chunks of stone that tumbled to the ground in clouds of dust. The defenders responded with arrows, but their efforts were disorganized and desperate.

Constantine's camp hummed with activity, the rhythm of war pulsing through every corner. Engineers adjusted the angles of the cannons, soldiers rotated through shifts on the perimeter, and couriers darted between tents with orders and reports. The atmosphere was tense but disciplined, the men united by the shared purpose of breaking Athens.

On the sixth day, a messenger arrived under a white flag, escorted by a pair of nervous-looking guards. Constantine received him in the central pavilion, flanked by Andreas and Sforza. The man, a thin figure with a patchy beard, trembled as he spoke.

"His Grace, the Duke of Athens, offers terms," the messenger stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of the room's silence.

Sforza leaned against the edge of the table, a wolfish grin playing on his lips. "Terms? What could he possibly offer that we can't take ourselves?"

"Enough," Constantine said, his tone sharp. He turned to the messenger, his gaze unyielding. "Tell your duke that the time for terms is past. If he surrenders now, his men will be spared. If he resists, they will all pay the price of his arrogance."

The messenger bowed shakily and retreated, leaving a charged silence in his wake. Andreas spoke first, his voice heavy with foreboding. "They won't surrender willingly. The Greeks in his ranks may yet rebel, but not while he's still breathing."

"Then we give them reason to," Constantine replied.

By the fifteen day, cracks began to show in the defenders' resolve. Reports trickled in of whispered discontent among the Greek soldiers, and Constantine seized the opportunity. Messages promising amnesty were sent across the lines, carried by arrows that landed within the walls. The seeds of doubt, once planted, took root quickly.

On the seventeen night, the rebellion came. Shouts and the clash of steel echoed from the Acropolis as the Greek soldiers turned on their Latin overlord. By dawn, Antonio Acciaioli was dead, his blood staining the ancient stones. A white flag rose above the citadel, fluttering weakly in the morning breeze.

The Acropolis was eerily quiet as Constantine ascended its steps, his boots crunching on the shattered remains of the gates. His soldiers followed at a respectful distance, their armor clinking softly in the stillness. The stench of blood and smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of olive trees carried on the wind.

In the heart of the citadel, Constantine found a treasury. It was a modest room by the standards of emperors, but its contents spoke of wealth accumulated over decades. Chests of gold florins, silver ingots, and jeweled ornaments glittered in the dim light. Sforza let out a low whistle, his grin widening as he ran a gloved hand over the coins.

"Not bad for a coward," he said. "This will go a long way toward funding the campaign."

Constantine ignored him, his attention on the room's other occupants. A handful of Greek clerics and local officials stood nervously near the walls, their eyes darting between Constantine and the armed guards. One of them, an Orthodox bishop with a lined face and a heavy cross around his neck, stepped forward.

"Despot," the bishop began, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. "Athens stands ready to serve under your rule. We ask only for your protection."

Constantine regarded the man for a long moment before speaking. "Athens will have its protection," he said. "But loyalty must be earned, not begged. Your people will see that this empire does not forget those who stand with it."

The bishop bowed deeply, murmuring a prayer under his breath. Constantine turned to Andreas. "Secure the city. Leave a garrison here—three hundred men and cannons to defend the walls. I want the people to know they are safe."

Andreas nodded and left to carry out the orders. Sforza lingered, his grin fading as he studied Constantine. "You're trully building something here," he said, his tone more serious than usual. "But don't think for a moment that it'll stand on promises alone."

Constantine's gaze was steady, his voice calm. "It'll stand because it has to, my friend."

As he descended from the Acropolis later that day, the cheers of the city's people rose to greet him. The cries of "Ieros Skopos!" echoed through the streets, their fervor filling the air like a tide.