EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

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."