EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai • Alt-History • Strategy]

Chapter Two: The Weight of Two Worlds

Clermont castle, Octomber 1428

Theodora slept soundly beside him, her dark hair fanning across the silk pillow in loose waves. In the gentle glow of a lone oil lamp, Michael could make out the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. Each quiet breath she drew was a soothing rhythm against the churning anxiety inside him. How can she be so at peace? he wondered. To her, this was only another night in the castle—her home, their home. But to Michael, every inch of this bedchamber felt foreign. The heavy woven coverlet, the faint scent of beeswax and smoke, even the reassuring weight of the woman at his side—all of it belonged to another man. And that man was supposed to be him.

He eased himself upright on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Theodora. A shiver prickled his skin as the cold air drifting off the stone walls seeped through his thin linen shirt. Back in his old life, he would've reached for a thermostat or burrowed under a comforter. Here, there was only the dying warmth of the hearth and the hush of a medieval night. The stillness pressed in on him, magnifying the frantic beat of his heart.

Two days. Two days had passed since he'd woken up to this impossible reality. In that time, he had grasped at every possible explanation—coma, psychotic break, even death and purgatory—only to come up empty. The truth was unavoidable: he was here, somehow, living the life of Constantine Palaiologos. And he was utterly lost. Michael closed his eyes and willed the confusion and panic to ebb, if only for a moment. He knew he couldn't go on like this, cowering in this bedchamber under the pretense of illness. I can't keep pretending, he thought, clenching the bedsheets in his fists. Hiding here solved nothing; sooner or later, he would have to face the world beyond these walls. But the thought of stepping outside—of meeting Constantine's friends, his generals, his servants—made Michael feel like a lamb being led to slaughter. How long could he fool them? How long before someone looked into his eyes and saw the stranger behind them?

A muffled dong... dong... echoed through the night—the tolling of a bell from some distant tower, marking the hour. Michael flinched; in the stillness of midnight, the sound was haunting. He glanced back over his shoulder at Theodora. She hadn't stirred, still deep in dreams. For a moment, envy flickered through him. He wondered what her dreams were tonight. He would never know. There was a gulf between them, one he was desperate and afraid to cross.

Unable to sit still any longer, Michael rose abruptly and crossed the room. The old wooden floorboards and cold stone tiles beyond felt like ice against his bare feet. The sudden chill was bracing; he almost welcomed the discomfort as proof that he wasn't trapped in some figment of his imagination. This world was real. Each cold step, each breath of frosty air was confirmation of that. Michael reached the narrow window and unlatched the shutter. With a low groan, the hinges gave way and the shutter swung outward. A gust of winter air rushed in, pricking his skin with gooseflesh and billowing the chamber's heavy drapes.

He leaned out into the night. Clermont, the castle and city now his home, sprawled below in silence. The castle grounds directly beneath were dim, lit by the sparse glow of torches along the perimeter walls. Their flames flickered valiantly against the darkness, tiny beacons of light in an otherwise black sea. Further beyond, the hills of the Morea rolled into the distance, their slopes cloaked in shadow. Here and there, in the valley, a few pinpricks of light marked villages where peasants likely tended late-night fires or kept watch over sick livestock. The scents of the night drifted up to him: woodsmoke, pine from the forests, a hint of the crisp ocean breeze blowing from the distant coast. It was a beautiful, serene scene—and yet it felt utterly wrong to him. This is not my world, he wanted to scream, I don't belong here!

He inhaled deeply, letting the cold night air fill his lungs. It smelled of earth and ash, so different from the pollution-tinged city air he was used to. The sharp chill burned his throat for a moment, grounding him. As he exhaled, Michael closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the stone window frame. The solid, chill stone pressed into his skin, anchoring him. Think, Michael. Don't fall apart. He had to gather himself. Hiding away and trembling like a frightened animal would not change the reality. He was Constantine now, whether he liked it or not; the sooner he confronted that, the better.