EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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