EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Late February 1433, Glarentza

A pale winter sun climbed over the rolling hills east of Glarentza, its soft light piercing the thin veil of mist still clinging to the city's stout walls. The morning air felt crisp and bright, carrying the mingled scents of damp earth and a faint brine from the shore. Though dawn had only just broken, the streets already bustled with fervor: soldiers checked and rechecked their horses' tack, merchants competed in frantic voices for last-minute sales, and laborers hurried between wagons, stacking crates of provisions that would sustain the journey ahead.

Constantine reined in his black stallion at the edge of the main courtyard. The horse's glossy coat shone even in the muted morning light, a deep crimson cloth bearing the double-headed eagle of the Palaiologos draped over its broad back. Constantine sat tall, a fur-lined cloak falling across his shoulders and rustling softly in the breeze. He let his gaze sweep over the lively scene before him, aware that this departure was more than a mere trip along the roads of the Morea. It was an undeniable statement—an open path to his claim of authority, a first step toward destiny.

Behind him extended a formidable procession: soldiers in their polished lamellar armor, sunbeams dancing across metal plates and shining shields; nobles and scholars in fine carriages, some staring pensively at the cobblestones, others quietly discussing the gravity of the mission; and several wagons loaded not just with food, arms, and supplies, but also with fresh banners and large posters stamped with Constantine's seal. This Ieros Skopos propaganda—an unfamiliar term in this era—had been carefully prepared to sway hearts and minds as surely as any blade might cut through armor.

Though not an army, Constantine's retinue had a purpose as potent as any conquering force. Where swords might fail, well-chosen words and stirring symbols could succeed. Every man, woman, and supply train in this gathering served a role in a grand design: to win the loyalty of his subjects.

He felt a surge of anticipation tighten in his chest as Captain Andreas approached, the rhythmic clang of metal horse tack heralding his arrival. The captain, who had joined them from the Hexamilion a mere two days before, was easy to spot with his grizzled features and warrior's posture. His brown eyes—sharp and unyielding—surveyed the column with the familiar scrutiny of a man who knew the cost of war, even in peacetime.

"All is in order, Despot," Andreas reported, reins held firm in hands accustomed to wielding both pen and sword. "Your orders?"

Constantine looked toward the horizon, imagining the winding roads through the rugged countryside that would lead them to Mystras—where the throne, and perhaps the very future of the empire, awaited him. He took in a measured breath, steadying himself before he spoke.

"We ride."

At that command, a horn's clarion note rang out, echoing off the city walls. Constantine spurred his stallion forward, the horse's hooves striking the cobblestones in a ringing tempo that set the procession in motion. Behind him, the bright double-headed eagle standard snapped in the cold breeze, and the rhythmic thrum of armored footsteps and rolling carriage wheels filled the street.

They passed beneath Glarentza's walls, the stones seeming to whisper farewells and caution in equal measure. Soldiers, servants, merchants, and scholars alike turned their eyes to the open road, bracing themselves for the march ahead. For Constantine, each hoofbeat marked another moment slipping away in the countdown to the declaration that would shape his destiny.

Krestena (Southeast of Glarentza – Afternoon)

The road to Krestena was no gentle highway. It twisted and turned through rugged terrain, dipping into shallow valleys and rising again over rolling hills. Much of the path was packed dirt and loose stones, worn into deep ruts by travelers and carts long since passed. Olive groves pressed close on either side, their silver-green leaves shimmering under the pale winter sun. Despite the lingering chill in the air, Constantine found himself warm, the steady cadence of the march and the weight of his cloak insulating him against the brisk wind.