EMPIRE REWRITTEN

Chapter 19: The Weight of Destiny

Glarentza, May 1430

The sea breeze carried the familiar scent of salt and promise as the Kyrenia glided gracefully into the bustling port of Glarentza. Sunlight danced on the gentle waves, casting shimmering reflections upon the ships anchored nearby. The harbor was alive with activity—sailors shouted orders as they unloaded cargo, merchants haggled over prices, and laughter mingled with the creaking of wooden masts. Michael stood at the bow, his cloak billowing softly in the wind, a faint smile playing on his lips. The sight of his city thriving filled his heart with a rare warmth; the once quiet port now teemed with life, a testament to the progress they had painstakingly achieved.

As the gangplank was thudded onto the dock, a small contingent of guards in polished armor formed a respectful line. At their head stood Theophilus Dragas, his robes deep black. His stern face softened as he caught sight of Michael, and he stepped forward with a measured grace befitting his station.

"Welcome home, Despot Constantine," Theophilus said, bowing deeply. His voice carried a note of genuine relief. "Your return brings joy to us all. Was your journey prosperous?"

Michael descended the gangplank, his boots meeting the solid ground with a sense of familiarity. He clasped Theophilus's outstretched hand warmly. "Indeed, Theophilus. The voyage was fruitful, though not without its trials. It gladdens me to see Glarentza so full of vigor."

Theophilus gestured toward the bustling marketplace beyond. "Trade has indeed flourished in your absence, my Despot. The demand for our bibles surpasses all expectations. Merchants from distant lands arrive daily, eager to partake in our offerings."

Michael's gaze swept over the harbor, taking in the colorful awnings of the stalls and the lively crowd. "It is as we hoped," he mused, his eyes reflecting a mix of satisfaction and contemplation. "Our endeavors begin to bear fruit."

A subtle tension flickered across Theophilus's features. "There is much to discuss, my Despot. Matters of import have arisen during your travels."

Michael raised an eyebrow, his expression turning serious. "Has something occurred?"

Theophilus hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Perhaps it is best if we speak within the council chamber. Some matters are best discussed away from prying ears."

Michael nodded slowly, a hint of concern edging into his voice. "Very well. Lead the way."

As they rode through the winding streets toward the castle of Clermont, the guards formed a discreet escort, their eyes vigilant. Mounted atop their horses, Michael led the way with Theophilus beside him, his demeanor composed but inwardly unsettled. George rode on Michael's other side, his gaze steady and watchful. The clip-clop of hooves echoed off the stone buildings, mingling with the distant murmur of the bustling city. Michael sensed the unease in Theophilus but held his questions, knowing the time for answers would come soon enough.

Reaching the castle gates, they passed beneath the archway adorned with the Roman double-headed eagle. The guards saluted smartly as they entered the cool shadows of the courtyard.

Inside the council chamber, the atmosphere shifted. Tall candles dimly lit the chamber, flames flickering against the stone walls adorned with maps and paintings. Petros, the steward, busied himself with a stack of parchments, glancing up as they entered.

"Despot," Petros greeted, bowing respectfully. "It is good to see you returned safely."

"Thank you, Petro," Michael replied, taking his seat at the head of the table. "It seems there is much to discuss."

"Indeed," Petros exchanged a glance with Theophilus. "There have been... developments."

Michael folded his hands, his gaze steady. "Then let us not delay further. Speak plainly."