EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter Nine: A Clash of Faith and Unity

Theodore turned abruptly, as though the philosopher's words struck a nerve. "We do not need to forsake our faith to adapt. There are reforms to be made, yes, but not this union. Would you have us part our lips in prayer to the Pope?"

A flicker of amusement softened Plethon's features. "I'm no Latin apologist, Theodore. My interest lies in ensuring that the empire does not succumb to the Ottomans. Even if we keep our liturgies, we must find a way to stand against the empire's inevitable decline. I do not believe survival and tradition must be at odds."

Theodore dropped into a chair, pressing a hand against his brow. In the wavering candlelight, the lines of worry on his face deepened. Memories of fallen cities and ruined icons rose unbidden, fueling the inner war between his devotion and his fear for Byzantium's future. "You know, old friend, how passionately I resist meddling with our creed. My father always cautioned me that our faith was the last bulwark against chaos. Sometimes I hear his voice, urging me to hold the line, no matter the price."

A hush fell. Plethon watched the younger man with an empathy born of many years in service to rulers who bore such burdens. At length, he spoke, his voice low yet unwavering. "I would not see Orthodoxy shattered. I would see it evolve, strengthened by a deeper understanding of philosophy and civic virtue. You call me radical because I study Plato's vision of a just society. But remember, Theodore—Plato taught that leaders must be willing to guide the people to what they need, even if they resist at first."

Theodore released a hollow laugh. "That's what unsettles me: the thought of an empire restructured by your Hellenic beliefs. The people are devout; they cry out to the Holy Virgin, to the saints. They do not look to the pantheon of ancient Greece. To them, your suggestions would be near-heresy."

Plethon spread his hands gently. "I'm aware of my reputation. Yet I do not preach an outright return to the old gods. Rather, I see wisdom in the philosophies of our ancestors. We can strengthen our present by integrating their insights into our governance and laws. Indeed, few truly understand that my aim is not to tear down the church, but to fortify our empire's spiritual foundation with knowledge that predates these bitter schisms."

Silence settled, thick with the weight of both men's convictions. Theodore gazed at the icon, noticing how the candle's glow lent life to the Virgin's serene face, and he felt an ache at the possibility of losing this cherished faith. Yet he also sensed that Plethon's counsel was not mere idealism—there was a practical urgency in the older man's words.

At last, Theodore spoke, a weary resignation in his voice. "You'd have me consider forging an alliance with the West, rethinking the role of Hellenic learning in our realm, all to stave off the Ottomans. I wonder if you see how precarious such steps could be. No matter how we frame it, many will call it betrayal."

Plethon rose with a slow dignity, weariness etched into his features. "Leadership demands more than pleasing the multitude. It requires looking beyond the immediate horizon, imagining what shape our empire might take after we weather this storm. You may find a middle path—one that spares Orthodoxy from corruption while securing the alliances we need. It is not an easy route, but it is there for those who dare to seek it."

Theodore closed his eyes briefly, letting out a long sigh. He pictured the emperor—his brother—caught in the grip of looming war, and the tattered remnants of a once-mighty empire scattered like leaves before an oncoming tempest. "Your words carry both promise and risk, Plethon. And still, you know the church elders will not bow to such bold reforms without a fight."

"There will always be a fight," Plethon said softly. "Better that it be on our terms, shaped by wisdom rather than desperation."

He inclined his head in a final show of respect and stepped toward the door. Theodore watched him go, then called after him, voice echoing in the dim corridor:

"Old friend—do not mistake my resistance for dismissal. I will reflect on your arguments. If there is a way to secure our empire without forsaking our soul, I wish to find it."

Plethon halted, glancing back. A gentle smile touched his lips, fleeting as candlelight. "That is all I ask. May reason and faith both guide you, Theodore."

Then he disappeared down the corridor, his footsteps fading into the hush of the castle.

Left alone, Theodore returned to the window. Night had fallen fully, and the stars dotted the sky like watchful sentinels. He placed a hand on the cool stone, recalling Plethon's fervent talk of a renewed Hellenic glory—a concept so radical that it unsettled him as much as the threat from the Ottomans themselves.

His gaze dropped to the icon of the Virgin Mary. "Will we find salvation in compromise, or damnation?" he murmured. No answer came from the silent icon, only the unwavering glow of the candle.

Long after darkness claimed the city, Theodore remained, torn between the pull of tradition and the call to adapt. Faith and survival—a delicate balance he could neither abandon nor confidently embrace. In the stillness, he felt every inch the ruler his father had raised him to be, bound by duty and haunted by uncertainty.