EMPIRE REWRITTEN

Chapter 32: The Siege of the Iron Gate

The early light filtered through the brick buildings as Michael strolled down Bedford Avenue, the morning chill brushing against his face. Williamsburg was waking up slowly, the cafes and boutiques just starting to open, and a faint smell of freshly baked bread drifted from a bakery across the street.

Michael took a detour to his favorite coffee shop, a cozy spot nestled between an art gallery and a vintage record store. The barista, a young guy with a knitted cap and a friendly smile, greeted him. "Morning, Michael! Your usual?" he asked, already grabbing a cup.

Michael nodded, settling into the familiar, comforting rhythm. He leaned against the counter, inhaling the dark, rich aroma as his coffee brewed. Outside, the quiet hum of early-morning Brooklyn filled the air, punctuated by the occasional rumble of the subway below and the distant sounds of the East River.

With his coffee in hand, Michael stepped back onto the street, savoring the warmth as he walked the few blocks to his bookstore. Williamsburg's energy was magnetic, a mix of young creatives, artists, and longtime locals who made the neighborhood feel alive with possibility. It was the perfect place for a bookstore—a small haven hidden in the midst of the neighborhood's eclectic streets.

He approached his shop, the storefront modest but welcoming, with the sign above that read Dust & Pages. A handwritten sign on the door advertised a local author event for that evening, and a few new arrivals were displayed in the window. He paused for a moment, looking at the familiar sight, feeling a rare sense of peace settle over him.

He reached for his keys, the chill of the metal a reminder of routines he'd come to cherish. As he inserted the key into the lock, a sudden dizziness washed over him. The world around him wavered, buildings seeming to ripple as if reflected in disturbed water.

"Constantine," a voice called out, cutting through the ambient noise of the city.

The name resonated deep within him, each syllable vibrating like a struck tuning fork. Michael blinked, his vision blurring at the edges. The distant honk of car horns and the murmur of early commuters dulled, replaced by an eerie silence.

"Constantine!" the voice repeated, more urgent now.

The quiet Brooklyn morning faded, slipping away like a fog. His heartbeat quickened as he felt the warmth of his coffee disappear. In its place came the scratchy feel of a coarse blanket and the muted, earthy scents of a military tent. He blinked, his body tensed, and realized he was lying on a bedroll in dim light, the familiar warmth of Williamsburg replaced by the cold dawn of another world.

"Despot Constantine," came the voice again, sharper now.

Michael—or Constantine, as he now was—snapped awake, the fog of sleep clearing to reveal George Sphrantzes, his trusted advisor, standing at the tent's entrance.

The chill of dawn clung to the camp as Constantine stirred to the sound of George's voice outside his tent. The sharp scent of burning wood from the night's dying fires mingled with the damp earth, grounding him in the present. "Despot, a message from Theodore," George announced, stepping inside. He handed Constantine a folded letter, its seal still intact.

Unfurling the parchment, Constantine's eyes skimmed Theodore's curt words. Withdraw your forces, Constantine. As Despot of Morea, I demand your obedience.

Anger simmered within him, but he let it settle before responding. Theodore's arrogance was expected. It didn't matter. They would press forward.

"George," he called out after a pause, his voice steady. "Prepare a reply. Tell Theodore that if he surrenders, I will spare him. But make it clear—I know of the assassins he sent. His treachery will be answered, one way or another."