EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter 63: The Dawn of Rebellion

He turned to the men standing beside him—Captain Andreas, his most trusted military officer, and Theophilus Dragas, his cousin and right hand now that George Shrantzes was governor of Mystras. Both men had watched over the mission's progress from afar, awaiting the news.

"They've returned," Constantine murmured.

Andreas, his sharp brown eyes squinting against the morning sun, gave a short nod. "We'll soon see if their journey was worth it."

The agents moved through the crowded waterfront with single-minded purpose, their dark cloaks billowing in the brisk, salt-laden wind. The docks were a riot of motion and noise: dockworkers hoisted heavy barrels onto splintered carts, sailors haggled with crooked merchants over crates of spices and wine, and beggars clamored for coins in shrill voices. Despite the clamor, the agents pressed on, weaving through knots of laborers and sidestepping half-drunken soldiers just stumbling off their ships. Their boots clattered against the warped wooden planks, each echo swallowed by the crash of distant waves.

At last, they spotted Constantine standing beneath the shadow of a building. Even from afar, his bearing marked him as a ruler—his posture erect, his gaze calm yet watchful. His retinue stood at a respectful distance, forming an invisible boundary between him and the milling throng. When the agents reached him, they immediately dropped to one knee in the traditional Byzantine gesture of fealty, fists pressed against their hearts.

"Emperor," the elder of the two greeted, his voice hoarse from weeks of hard travel. Fatigue clung to him like a second skin, but there was no mistaking the fire in his eyes. Urgency radiated from every tense line of his body.

Constantine nodded and motioned for them to rise. "Stand," he said, his tone firm yet not unkind. "You've come far. We will speak privately."

He pivoted on his heel and led them away from the teeming docks, where the smell of fish and tar hung thick in the air. His personal guards cut a path through the onlookers. A few curious stares followed, but most returned to their business, content that their Emperor's affairs were far above their station. Soon, the noise faded to a dull roar behind them as Constantine guided the pair toward the fortress gates—a stone battlement perched on a rocky promontory overlooking the sea.

They passed through a narrow courtyard filled with stacked crates and spare weapons, weaving between patrolling soldiers who snapped to attention at the Emperor's approach. A set of heavy wooden doors led inside the sea fortress proper, and torches flickered in wall sconces, chasing away the cool dimness of the corridors. Eventually, they entered a modest chamber: its high-beamed ceiling lent it a sense of openness, while a single narrow window allowed a shaft of sunlight and a gentle breeze to drift in from the harbor. The only furniture of note was a sturdy oaken table, upon which lay a parchment map of Albania and Western Greece, inked with the winding courses of rivers and the sharp lines of mountain ranges.

Constantine gestured for Theophilus and Andreas—his trusted confidants—to gather near. The two agents remained standing, their bearing tense. Their message could not wait on formalities.

"Speak," Constantine commanded softly, yet the urgency in his voice was unmistakable. He took his place at the head of the table, eyes fixed on the men.

The elder agent inclined his head. "The rumors are true, Emperor: Albania has risen in full revolt against the Turks."

He paused, searching Constantine's gaze. Seeing that the Emperor was ready for every word, he pressed on. "Andrea Thopia, a local noble with considerable influence, delivered the first blow. He ambushed an Ottoman detachment in central Albania. Emboldened by his success, others followed suit, and now the rebellion spreads like wildfire."