February - 1432
Gazing upon Mangup’s newly polished gates was a pastime that never grew old for Konstantinos. The bronze fittings caught the morning light like sheets of fire, the stone around them dark and sheer where it bit into the cliff face. He’d marveled at them, imposing and stalwart, when he’d arrived here years ago exiled and fearful. Angry at fate, at God, at the Ottomans, and determined to change the course that had been forced upon him.
Much had changed since then. Enough, he supposed, that he could say he had kept the promise he’d made as his father lay sick and feverish aboard that godforsaken ship. The journey north had been brutal, and his father had felt it the keenest. Not so much because of the rough seas, but because his lifeforce seemed tethered to Morea. Choppy, slate-grey waves made poor substitutes for the still, glassy mirror of Lake Stymphalia at dawn. Konstantinos remembered standing on the cramped deck, smelling tar and brine instead of pine and wild thyme, when his father had tugged weakly at his sleeve.
“Promise me son,” the old man had whispered, fingers clammy, weak and pale as they clamped around his hand. “Promise me you won’t forget your roots.” His stark silver eyes, a burden he’d inherited, had bored into him with an unnatural lucidity for a dying man. “That you’ll build a home that’ll keep our iron strong. And that you’ll protect it from those infidels.”
He remembered them even more often now. The great Roman Empire was now functionally a vassal state. And he had been part of the wave of refugees who’d fled the inevitable. Choosing the most cowardly path available: the most remote, inhospitable refuge of Christian Greeks.
“My lord,” a voice, thin and soft, sounded out from his elbow. “What plagues your mind?”
Demetrios had an uncanny knack for sensing his moods, especially when they turned for the worse.
“Just memories of the past.” Konstantinos did not elaborate, folding the old pain back behind familiar walls. There were some ghosts he refused to share, vestiges of the past he still cherished despite the pain.
“The sight of Mangup from afar often does that to you,” Demetrios commented, damn the insightful bastard. “Even when you return victorious and a hero.”
Konstantinos snorted. “That is as much an exaggeration as I’ve heard. It was a small skirmish. It gained us little and mattered even less.”
“Men in the capital are the ones who decide that. Not you,” he replied mildly, watching seagulls wheel and hover over the city in the clear morning light. “And they’re eager to assign significance to the smallest crumb if it paints them in a good light.”
Despite having only moved among nobles for a short while, Demetrios had grown a dangerous talent for speaking deep, uncomfortable truths. And for questioning Konstantinos at every turn. Though, Konstantinos supposed, that was why he’d wanted the man in the first place.
They walked through the capital to a surprising amount of fanfare. Word of even a “small skirmish” travelled fast when people were hungry for good news. Konstantinos waved and smiled at the people lining the narrow streets. His father had always said that smiles cost nothing but kindness, and his mother had insisted he had the most dashing smile of any boy in Morea. He’d never quite believed her, but he had come to notice faces lit up when he smiled, so he did it.
As they turned a corner, a tiny boy squeezed through the legs of the crowd, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Are you a giant, mister?” he shouted, wide-eyed. The procession faltered as Konstantinos laughed, reined in his stallion, and swung himself down with easy, practiced grace. He crouched so they were eye to eye. “Yes,” he said gravely, “and if you eat well, train hard, and listen to your parents, you’ll grow up to be as big as me.” The boy’s giggle burst out of him, high and bright, and turned into delighted laughter when Konstantinos pressed a glistening fig into his small palm. Nearby faces softened; smiles spread like ripples on water, none broader than the boy’s parents, who bowed so deeply their foreheads nearly brushed the dust.
Konstantinos patted the child’s curls once, then climbed back onto his stallion, armour creaking, and the procession resumed its slow, dignified advance through the cheering street.
“We’re already late, my lord,” Demetrios complained from his side, though the words had no real bite to them.
“Sorry,” Konstantinos said lightly, raising his hand in a last wave to the boy. The child stared back at him, clutching the fig as if it were a holy relic. His eyes shone with something far more unsettling than fear or loathing.
They shone with hope.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Prince Olubei’s voice flowed through the Sky Hall like warmed honey, sweetening every ear that touched it. He spoke of Genoese treachery ambushing our forces and Theodoran resolve to come out ahead despite being outnumbered. Where “one man’s indomitable courage” had turned panic into steel. With a theatrical flourish, he proclaimed that such heroism could not go unrewarded.
Konstantinos listened, head bowed, jaw tight, the words washing over him - pleasant, suffocating, and not quite real. He remembered shouting a few sharp orders, charging first so no one could see his hesitation, and his men following because they refused to shame themselves. He’d done nothing too grand. The men who hadn’t walked off that field deserved the flowery praise more than he did.
“Do you accept this great honour in the name of our principality?” The Prince swept his arms in a grand gesture, as if blessing the entire hall.
“I do,” Konstantinos said, dropping to one knee on the polished marble. His armour creaked, the clang echoing faintly beneath the painted, vaulted ceiling.
“Then rise, and have your Family’s name formally enshrined in our noble Principality.”
Konstantinos rose to his full height, towering a hand over most in the Sky hall. Applause rippled politely through the crowd, more dutiful than exuberant. Once the ceremony was finished, he was finally excused to leave the hall. As he turned, he caught a flurry of movement at the edge of his vision. In a corner stood a raven-haired beauty in aquiline blue. Her gaze raked over him, her lips mouthing three silent words no one else could see. Meet me outside.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Did you have to tower over the Prince like that?” Anastasia chuckled, the high sound bouncing off the white limestone of the kioskí like sunlight off water. The last rays of orange light spilled over the low wall, painting the blue roses around them in molten gold. “I know he is short, but it paints a poor picture of the crown,” she mock-admonished, eyes dancing.
“I apologize, my lady,” Konstantinos replied, reaching for one of the nearby roses. He turned it between calloused fingers, studying the fullness of its petals and breathing in its clean, soft fragrance. “Next time I shall half rise, half hunch whenever I approach His Highness. It was truly a horrendous crime.” He judged the rose adequate and plucked it. “Please accept my deepest apologies for the treasonous behaviour.”
He offered the bloom to Anastasia for inspection. She leaned in, delighted despite herself, inhaling its scent. Though not before having a quick, practiced glance around the kioskí to ensure no stray courtier or curious servant had wandered too close. Their own attendants held discreet posts at the edges of the garden paths, forming a loose, invisible circle. They’d had their servants ensure a protective circle, as they could not be seen alone with no oversight.
“None of that. Worry doesn’t suit you,” Konstantinos murmured as he eased the rose to rest above her left ear, the gesture delicate. His knuckles brushed her temple, the touch feather-light.
Anastasia’s hand rose to steady his, fingers lingering on his for a heartbeat that stretched too long. Then she snatched it away as if burned. “Worry is necessary,” she said briskly. “My father has not approved your request yet, Konstantinos. You cannot cross a line.” Her fingers tightened anxiously around the hem of her dress. “Not yet.”
“I’m a Royal Captain of the Guard now,” Konstantinos said, a small frown creasing his brow. The new title sat on his shoulders like borrowed armour - heavy and not quite his.
“You’re unlanded, and still viewed as a foreigner.” Anastasia rose from the bench, as if the thought reminded her she had suddenly somewhere else to be.
“I will win another victory then.” Konstantinos stood as well, the decision hardening his features. Anastasia’s eyes matched his, her chestnut gentleness enveloping his silvery daggers. “For you.”
“You speak as if that is easy.” Anastasia scoffed lightly, though the sound lacked true bite. She plucked the rose from her hair and, after a moment’s hesitation, nestled it back among the others in the bush. Hidden there, it was indistinguishable from the rest.
Anastasia turned to look at him one last time, something unspoken flickering in her gaze.
“Don’t die out there, Konstantinos.”
Then she sauntered back toward her waiting cadre, posture flawlessly composed once more. Konstantinos’s gaze fell once more on the blue rose in the rosebush, waiting to be plucked.
He only had to reach it.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A few weeks later
The fireplace in the Kalamita barracks was an exactly terrible size. It was too small to warm the cavernous stone belly of the room, and just large enough to smoke it thoroughly if some idiot shoved in a wet log. Soot stains climbed the walls like black ivy, and the air held that permanent mix of sweat, leather, and old ash.
Konstantinos waltzed through it all with habitual familiarity, nodding to the men of his unit clustered around dice, mending harness, or simply dozing with their backs to the wall.
“Oy, Captain, back from the noble balls and adoring fans?” joked Vasileos, one of his veteran sergeants, his cleft lip tugging crookedly upward into a grin.
Konstantinos waved the barb away. “I thought you lot were my biggest fans.”
Vasileos barked a short laugh. “Glad he remembers poor little us, what with all the dames he has waiting for him up in Mangup.” He slapped the nearest soldier’s shoulder, earning a chorus of snickers.
“Any news from the front?” Konstantinos asked. The question leeched the humour from the air; the men stilled, listening.
“Nothing much. Things are quiet. Too quiet,” Vasileos said, the old saying carrying a weight of its own. “Panagiotis wanted to see you.”
Konstantinos’s eyes sharpened. That was usually not good. “Did he say why?”
“No,” Vasileos scoffed at the thought he ever would. “It’s about the last battle. He wasn’t happy, let’s just say that.”
“Good man.” Konstantinos set a meaty hand on his shoulder, squeezing once in thanks. “Where is he?”
Vasileos jutted his chin toward the small supply closet the Papadoupolos scion had commandeered as a personal base of operations. A curtain of hanging cloaks half-hid the door. Konstantinos hesitated for a step, then strode forward. No use delaying the inevitable.
He rapped his knuckles against the wood.
“Enter.” Panagiotis made the single word a command. That was his usual tone for everyone who was not a superior.
Konstantinos forced down the familiar curl of annoyance and opened the door.
“…push them back on the eastern front. It’s close to collapse,” a flamboyant voice was saying. It was elegant and refined, the kind of voice that belonged more in a salon than on a wall. Black curls framed a narrow face, carefully arranged despite the campaign dust.
“Kalamita is the priority. We can’t spare the resources,” Panagiotis answered, tone flat as hammered iron.
“If we lose our eastern vineyards-” The other man was dressed more like a noble patron of the arts than an officer on an active front.
“You mean your eastern vineyards.” Panagiotis’s eyes were dark shadows, and his thinning brown hair was cropped short. “The crown’s priorities are more important than Makris lands.”
“You’re making a mistake, Panagiotis.”
“That is Commander Panagiotis, Captain.”
The man looked ready to continue the argument, but Panagiotis cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Enough, you are dismissed, Philemon. Go back to your post.”
His rich robes swayed as he turned, expression incandescent with barely leashed fury. On his way out he nearly collided with Konstantinos, “Oh, look who it is.” Konstantinos didn’t spare him a glance as Philemon deliberately veered to avoid him, disgust written plain across his face.
Once they were alone, the cramped room seemed to grow colder.
“You called for me,” Konstantinos said.
Panagiotis studied him for a moment. “Reports say you did not pursue the Genoese after the last engagement,” he said. “We had them in retreat. Why?”
“Because half my men were bleeding into the mud,” Konstantinos replied, voice even. “They needed bandages and surgeons, not another charge.”
“That was a prime opportunity to cripple the Genoese,” Panagiotis shot back. “Win decisively, end this little war sooner, and save more lives in the long run.”
Konstantinos met his gaze without flinching. “I wasn’t about to sacrifice more men than I had to. I don’t regret it and I’d make the same call again.”
Panagiotis stared him down, jaw tight. Konstantinos stared right back, silver eyes hard as drawn steel.
“You’re a fool,” Panagiotis said at last. “A commander must be coolheaded enough to weigh lives against each other. To spend some so that most may live.”
“Maybe you can look men in the eye and send them to their death with no hesitation,” Konstantinos replied quietly. “But I can’t. And I won’t.”
“You will follow orders.” Panagiotis’s lips thinned.
“Only if they are the right ones.” Konstantinos stared back.
Panagiotis rose from his chair. “I am your commander. You will obey, or face the consequences.”
A bitter retort rose to Konstantinos’s tongue, “You’re not-” A distant shout knifed through the barracks, followed by another, closer, and then the harsh, unmistakable clang of the alarm bell.
Cries of warning rolled through the fortress like thunder.
“The Genoese,” Panagiotis hissed.
Both men bolted from the supply room, their argument instantly shelved as muscle and training took over. They sprinted toward the stairway that led up to the battlements, boots pounding in unison on the stone and splitting as each went to their designated places.
By the time Konstantinos reached the inner yard, his page was there, small hands working with frantic efficiency to strap armour over his gambeson.
“How many?” Konstantinos asked, eyes already scanning the walls as buckles snapped shut around his ribs.
“Hundreds,” Vasileos answered grimly from his side. “Maybe over a thousand.”
Konstantinos’s eyes narrowed. They were severely outnumbered.
Wave after wave of Genoese came on, helmets glinting like dull fish scales in the grey light. Ladders slapped against the stone, hooks bit into the parapet, and the whole wall thrummed with the impact of bodies and iron and the screams of men.
“Hold!” Konstantinos roared, voice raw. “Push them back! Mangup holds!”
His spear became an extension of his will. He drove the iron tip down into the first helmet that crested the wall, then ripped it free and swept sideways, smashing another climber from the ladder. A shield line wavered; he stepped into the gap without thinking, bracing his shoulder against a trembling young guardsman.
“Stand with me!” he bellowed. “They bleed like we do!”
The men rallied to that, to him. Every time a ladder rose, Konstantinos was there, the world narrowing to a deadly rhythm of thrust, wrench, shove. And the wet, ugly sound of steel meeting flesh.
The sun was nothing but a smear of red behind the smoke when the last of the Genoese peeled away, leaving the ground beneath the walls a twisted carpet of broken bodies.
Konstantinos stood amid his own fallen, chest heaving, armour slick and tacky with blood whether it was his, theirs or the enemy’s, he didn’t know. Around him, men sagged against merlons or simply sat where they’d fought, too spent even to cheer.
He stared out at the carnage with a hollow, aching sadness, then slowly lowered his gaze to his hands. Coarse, scarred fingers, knuckles split and caked in dried gore, still clenched around the haft of his spear.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His hands sifted through the dark earth, breaking apart roots and rocks with the same ease they wielded his spear and took lives. The soil was cool, damp, honest. Konstantinos dug to forget the memories of the battlefield.
“You can stop digging, my Lord,” Demetrios said, voice light ever since they left the capital. “The hole is deep enough to plant a full grown tree, much less a seed haha.”
He straightened, stretching his back as he looked around at the vast expanse of frontier land - his land now. All around them, the abandoned homestead creaked back to life: men repairing roofs, re-hanging doors, driving new posts into the ground. The victory had netted a sizeable bounty. Enough to pay for the ambitious estate Konstantinos had planned.
“What will we plant here, my Lord? This is a fine spot, must be something grand.”
Konstantinos gazed over the rolling fields and low hills, feeling the wind tug at his hair. He settled on a decision. “The hazelnut.”
Demetrios’s gaze turned serious, the humour draining from his face as he stared meaningfully at him. “Here?”
“Yes.”
Konstantinos took the seed that had travelled with them across continents and sea. So far away from where it had first grown, yet a promise of something new. With reverent care, he set it into the earth, then covered it with a mixture of dark brown soil and ashes from the urn he’d guarded with his life. Each flake fell with deliberate slowness, sacred in its own way.
The mountains in the distance stood watch, their peaks dusted with lingering snow. The wind tasted sharp and clean. They were far from home, but he thought his father would approve. It was the new beginning he had wanted for them: a new home to defend with iron until death.
Konstantinos packed the earth gently and bowed his head in a silent prayer. Demetrios placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “To new beginnings,” he said softly.
“To new beginnings,” Konstantinos echoed, his voice thick with emotion and the ghosts of death and blood flickering behind his eyes.
A sudden commotion broke the quiet. Shouts, faint at first, then clearer, carried on the wind from the track that cut across his new lands.
Konstantinos straightened. A lone figure was fleeing across the scrub, stumbling and weaving, and behind it rode two nomadic horsemen, bows slung, sabres at their hips.
He did not think. He moved.
As he closed the distance, he saw the fugitive was a woman in torn rags, bare feet bleeding, hair wild. She saw him and veered toward them with the last of her strength.
She collapsed almost at his feet, clutching at his boot, face streaked with grime and tears. “Kurtar beni, lütfen!” she gasped. The words meant nothing to him, but the terror in her voice, the way her hands shook, said enough.
The riders reined in a few paces away, eyes narrowing as they took in Konstantinos’s size, his armour, the men on the walls turning to watch.
“She is runaway slave,” the older one said in harsh, broken Greek. “Khan property. Give her back.”
Konstantinos stepped forward, placing himself squarely between them and the woman. “This is not the Khanate,” he said, voice low and cold.
The horsemen exchanged a glance, measuring him - the breadth of his shoulders, the hard set of his jaw, the deadliness in his pale eyes that spoke of too many battles survived. One spat into the dust.
“You’re making mistake,” he warned. But he wheeled his horse around all the same, nudging it back the way they’d come. The other followed, both of them riding off with stiff backs and resentful glances.
When they were gone, Konstantinos knelt beside the woman. She lay spent on the ground, chest heaving, mumbling breathless thanks in Turkic he could not understand.
“Easy,” he said gently. “You’re safe.”
He asked her name, but the question only earned a bewildered look.
He studied her: amber eyes wide and wild in a face streaked with dirt and salt tracks, lips cracked, shoulders trembling. Carefully, he touched his chest. “Konstantinos,” he said.
She turned fully to him then, fragile and impossibly hopeful, as if the single word were an outstretched hand.
“Alsu,” she whispered.