The road wound through the heart of the Morea, its path twisting through hills blanketed in winter's fading chill. Constantine rode at the head of the column, his cloak catching the wind, the Palaiologoi standard—a golden double-headed eagle on crimson—flapping proudly behind him. Each mile brought him closer to Karytaina.
As they crested the final ridge, Karytaina came into view, perched atop its steep hills like a sentinel over the surrounding valleys. The castle, a compact but formidable fortress, overlooked the settlement below, its repaired walls gleaming in the late afternoon light. Smoke curled from chimneys, and in the distance, terraced fields and vineyards stretched toward the horizon, the land promising stability for those who could defend it.
Unlike the bloodshed that had accompanied his arrival at Veligosti a year prior, Karytaina had submitted to him without resistance. The local garrison had sworn loyalty, and since then, he had invested in its defenses, turning the town into a vital bulwark at the center of the Morea.
As they neared the gates, the local garrison formed ranks. The gates creaked open, revealing a courtyard within. Constantine and his guards rode through, the sound of hooves striking stone echoing against the high walls. A group of officers waited for him, led by Vardas Angelos, the local commander he had left in charge.
Vardas was a solid man in his late thirties, his dark hair bound in a short queue, his lamellar armor showing the wear of long service. He bowed deeply as Constantine dismounted.
"Despot," Vardas greeted, his tone respectful but firm. "It is an honor to receive you in Karytaina. The garrison stands ready for your inspection."
Constantine dismounted, his boots striking the stone courtyard with measured confidence as he clasped the man's forearm in greeting. "Good. Walk with me," he said.
They moved through the castle's defenses. Constantine's eyes took in every detail—the walls, the cannon placements, the condition of the barracks. The repairs he had ordered last year had been completed; fresh stonework reinforced the outer walls, and new weapons had been added to the armory.
"You've kept the place well," Constantine said, his voice firm yet measured. "And the men?"
"They train daily," Vardas responded. "The garrison stands at one hundred strong, with another fifty militia drawn from the town. Not all are warriors, but they will fight when the time comes."
Vardas then explained how patrols had been expanded into the surrounding valleys, keeping an eye out for bandits.
Following the inspection of Karytaina's fortifications and garrison, Constantine addressed the assembled soldiers and townspeople in the main square, much as he had done in Krestena. The speech aimed to reinforce his claim as the rightful Emperor of Byzantium and to denounce Demetrios as a traitor enthroned by the Ottomans.
With the garrison standing in formation and the town's residents gathering in large numbers, Constantine delivered a forceful proclamation. He announced the murder of Emperor John VIII and exposed the treachery of Demetrios, emphasizing that Constantinople was now under the Sultan's control. He called upon the people of Karytaina to recognize him as the true Emperor and to stand with him in defiance of foreign subjugation.
The reaction from both the soldiers and the townspeople was overwhelmingly positive. The crowd responded with cheers and chants of Ieros Skopos, mirroring the enthusiasm seen in Krestena.
Continuing his journey to Mystras, Constantine also made stops in Veligosti and Gardiki, both key settlements along the route. As in Krestena and Karytaina, these visits were intended to consolidate local support, inspect the state of the fortifications and local Tachis Ippos stations, and reinforce his claim as the rightful Emperor of Byzantium.
Arrival at Mystras, Early April of 1433
The sky was painted in pale hues of winter gray, and the air carried a sharp chill. High above the rolling countryside, the stone walls of Mystras rose from the rugged slopes of Mount Taygetus, their crenelated battlements and weathered towers testifying to the city's resilience. Vines and climbing ivy clung to the ancient stone, as if the very mountain itself sought to reclaim the fortress. In the distance, light clouds drifted across the horizon, transforming the sunlight into a subdued glow that gave Mystras an almost ethereal silhouette.
Though it was not Constantinople, the fabled Queen of Cities that every Byzantine heart still yearned for, Mystras was a bastion of the empire in its own right—a seat of Despots, scholars, and warriors who defied the slow retreat of Byzantium's legacy. Its churches, home to brilliant theologians and artists, stood proud, their domes etched against the sky. Within Mystras' labyrinthine streets, one could still hear the echoes of ancient ambition, the memory of a realm that refused to fade quietly into history.
As they neared the gates of Mystras, the entire city seemed to stir. Church bells tolled, their resonant chimes cutting through the mountain air and echoing across the valley. At once, it felt as though the entire populace surged toward the gates: merchants in stained aprons rushing from their stalls, monks pausing mid-prayer to look up, soldiers leaning forward on their spears, and townsfolk of all ages crowding the narrow streets. They stood shoulder to shoulder, whispering Constantine's name in voices filled with curiosity and excitement.
For them, this was no ordinary arrival. They had read the urgent proclamations and heard the rumors spreading across the Morea: the rightful emperor was coming.
The procession pressed forward, winding its way along the twisting road that led to the city gates. On either side, people craned their necks, some even standing on barrels or crates to catch a better glimpse of Constantine. Others waved small homemade banners in a show of fervent loyalty.
Riding near the front, Constantine caught sight of a young girl perched on a stone ledge, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She wore a threadbare cloak but clutched a tiny wooden cross in her hands. Their eyes met, and for a moment, all the clamor and excitement seemed to fade. In that instant, Constantine felt a surge of determination that drowned out the ache of his long journey.
Once through the Iron Gate, Mystras enveloped them in its narrow lanes. Streets that had seemed cramped and twisting now brimmed with throngs of onlookers, their breaths frosting in the chilly air. Constantine kept his posture upright, his chin set with quiet resolve.
He felt the weight of countless eyes upon him—people who had pinned their hopes on the rumors of a new emperor. These were faces worn by hardship and war, by the creeping shadow of an empire's decline. But in their upturned gazes, Constantine also saw a flicker of faith—a belief that maybe, just maybe, the final chapters of Byzantium's story had not yet been written.
He had seen such faces before in Krestena, Karytaina, Veligosti, and Gardiki—but here in Mystras, something felt distinctly different. Expectation filled the streets. Possibility and hope hung in the air, as palpable as the cold.
Their journey ended at the foot of the Despot's Palace, an imposing structure that crowned the upper city, where rugged stone walls gave way to the refined lines of marble buildings. Once home to the Despots of the Morea, it now stood ready to greet an emperor.
At the foot of the Despot's Palace, a familiar figure stood waiting. George Sphrantzes, his most trusted advisor, the man who had ruled Mystras in his stead for nearly a year now.
The last time they had stood together, John VIII was still the emperor, and Constantine a despot. Now? Everything had changed.
Constantine pulled the reins and dismounted, the clink of armor and tack echoing against the palace walls. He felt a ripple of relief in his limbs—tired from the journey, yet bolstered by the sight of this familiar friend. Sphrantzes advanced, his cloak billowing in the cold mountain wind, and offered a deep bow.
But there was no room for ceremonious distance. Before Sphrantzes could fully straighten, Constantine stepped forward, clasping him by the forearm in a gesture of companionship. This was not a scripted moment in the imperial protocol, but the earnest greeting of friends who had endured the same storms.
A flicker of warmth passed across Sphrantzes' normally solemn features, a rare smile appearing at the edges of his lips.
"Welcome, my friend," he said softly, each word carrying the weight of unspoken concerns.
For a second, Constantine closed his eyes, letting the tautness in his chest ease.
"It is good to see you, George," he replied, his voice low and steady.
"You enter these walls as a despot," Sphrantzes said softly, each syllable crystallizing in the chilly air, "yet soon you shall ascend as emperor."
For a moment, the distant toll of church bells seemed to fade, leaving only the soft rustle of cloaks and the beat of Constantine's own heart. He met Sphrantzes' gaze, his expression unwavering despite the enormity of the words. When he spoke, his voice was low and firm, carrying a sense of inevitability.
"Fate left me no other path," he answered quietly, as though even the wind might overhear.
Sphrantzes turned slightly, gesturing toward the broad stone steps leading into the palace.
"Come. We have much to discuss."
With that, the two men climbed the steps together, accompanied by the soft whisper of the crowd behind them.
The Coronation Ceremony
The bells of Mystras tolled, their solemn echoes rolling down the mountain slopes like the voice of history itself.
The streets were filled with people—soldiers in polished armor, monks in dark robes, merchants and farmers standing shoulder to shoulder, nobles wrapped in fine cloaks of silk and wool. They had all come to witness a moment rarely seen: an imperial coronation.
At the highest point of the city, within the Church of Saint Demetrios, the great doors stood open, allowing the golden morning light to spill across the mosaic-tiled floor. The scent of burning incense filled the air, thick and heady, mingling with the faint chill of winter still lingering in the stone walls.
And at the center of it all, standing before the holy altar, was Constantine.
His hands were steady, his breath controlled, but inside his mind raced with the weight of what was about to happen.
This was real.
Before him stood the Metropolitan of Lacedaemon, an elderly man with piercing gray eyes and a beard as white as fresh-fallen snow. In his hands, he held a golden chalice filled with holy oil.
Constantine wore a deep crimson tunic embroidered with gold, its sleeves lined with Byzantine crosses. Over it, he bore a long mantle of deep purple, fastened at the shoulder with a golden clasp bearing the double-headed eagle. He had worn armor, led armies, and made speeches, but this moment felt heavier than all of them combined.
The Metropolitan stepped forward. The church fell into absolute silence.
"Do you, Constantine Palaiologos, swear to uphold the true faith, to rule with justice, and to defend the Empire against all who would see it fall?"
The words rang in his ears.
He had never been a particularly religious man in his past life. But here, now, in this holy space—with the fate of thousands resting on his shoulders—the weight of the question felt immense.
Yet, he knew there was only one answer.
"I swear it."
The Metropolitan dipped his fingers into the sacred oil, tracing the sign of the cross upon Constantine's forehead, his hands, his chest—the places of thought, strength, and will.
Then came the words, spoken in a voice that had echoed through the ages:
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I anoint you Emperor of the Romans."
A murmur rippled through the assembled clergy and nobles. The moment had come.
An acolyte stepped forward, carrying the imperial crown upon a velvet cushion—a band of heavy gold adorned with pearls and sapphires, its arched frame holding a small golden cross.
The Metropolitan lifted it, and for the briefest moment, Constantine saw his own reflection in the polished gold.
And in that reflection, he did not see Michael Jameston, the middle-aged bookseller.
He saw Constantine XI Palaiologos, Emperor of Byzantium.
The crown was placed upon his brow, its weight both real and symbolic, pressing down like the weight of an empire long in decline.
The moment stretched, eternal—a heartbeat where the entire world seemed to hold its breath.
Then the Metropolitan raised his staff and proclaimed:
"Long live Constantine, Emperor and Autocrat ton Rhomaion!"
The Shout That Shook the City
A beat of silence.
Then the church erupted.
Outside, the city answered.
The people cheered, their voices rising in a deafening roar that echoed through the streets, through the valleys, through the mountains beyond.
"Long live the Emperor!"
"Long live Constantine!"
"Basileus ton Rhomaion!"
"Ieros Skopos!"
A Moment of Surreal Clarity
As the Metropolitan stepped back, as the nobles approached to bow, as his soldiers knelt before him in fealty, Constantine remained still. His hands touched the crown lightly. The cold metal sent a shock through his fingers.
It had happened.
It was real.
He had fought, he had planned, he had changed history itself.
He had become Emperor of Byzantium.
And the most surreal moment of his life had just begun.
A Private Council
The fire crackled in the grand hall of the Despot's Palace, casting long, restless shadows across the marble floor and frescoed walls. The banners of Byzantium—rich crimson and gold, emblazoned with the double-headed eagle—hung heavy in the dim light.
At the center of the room, seated around a long wooden table, were the men who now held the future of the empire in their hands.
George Sphrantzes, Theophilos Dragas, Captain Andreas, Plethon, and Constantine.
For the first time since last year in Glarentza, all five of them were together again.
It felt like a lifetime ago.
A single parchment lay between them, its wax seal freshly broken. The message had arrived a couple of days ago, carried by a Venetian merchant ship from Constantinople.
Constantine exhaled, staring at the words before him.
Demetrios.
His younger brother had finally reached out.
Not with an olive branch.
With a command.
Demetrios' Demand
To the Lords of Mystras,
I, Demetrios Palaiologos, rightful Emperor and Autocrat of the Romans, order the immediate submission of the city of Mystras and its people to my rule.
I speak with the authority of the throne, upheld by the will of the Sultan, the only true protector of our empire.
You will swear fealty before the end of April. If you do, you will be spared the fate of those who defy me. If you resist, you will share the ruin of all who challenge their rightful sovereign.
A long silence followed as the words settled over the room.
Then, finally, Plethon scoffed. "A pitiful attempt at authority. He doesn't even believe his own words."
Andreas leaned back, crossing his arms. "That's because he knows the truth. He has no army. Not one worth speaking of, anyway."
Theophilos nodded. "Not one that could take a single fortified city, much less Mystras and the Morea."
Sphrantzes, ever the pragmatist, tapped his fingers against the wooden table. "Which means the only true threat in that letter is the Sultan's will."
The air in the chamber grew heavier.
Murad.
Demetrios held no real power. That much was clear. He had seized the imperial palace with Ottoman help, but beyond Constantinople's walls, he commanded nothing but ink and paper. The true master of the empire sat in Edirne.
Constantine exhaled through his nose. "This is not a declaration of strength. It is a plea."
Theophilos glanced at him. "You believe he is afraid?"
"I know he is." Constantine picked up the letter, his fingers brushing over the parchment. "He would not have sent this if he were certain of himself. He wants us to surrender out of fear before he has to beg Murad for an army he does not have."
Theophilos shook his head. "A desperate move. He doesn't even realize he's already lost."
Andreas chuckled, his grin sharp as a blade. "If he thinks we're going to kneel, he's a greater fool than I thought."
Constantine's Decision
Constantine let the letter fall back onto the table, his decision already made.
"There will be no reply."
Sphrantzes nodded, unsurprised. "Let him wonder."
Constantine glanced around the table, his gaze sweeping over the men who had followed him this far, who had stood by him since the beginning. "We do not acknowledge false emperors," he said. "And we do not acknowledge the Sultan's claim over our throne."
Andreas thumped a fist against the table. "Damn right we don't."
Sphrantzes exhaled, his expression unreadable. "Then the only thing left to do is prepare for what comes next."
Plethon steepled his fingers. "The West must know of this farce. We must send letters to Rome, Venice, and Burgundy. Demetrios rules nothing but the Sultan's shadow, and we will make sure every man in Christendom knows it."
Constantine exhaled, running a hand over his face. The reality of the moment pressed down on him.
He had taken the crown that morning, and by nightfall, he had already begun his first war as an Emperor.
The Final Words
A silence settled between them, the weight of the moment hanging in the firelit chamber.
Plethon studied Constantine carefully before speaking. "Are you prepared for this?"
Constantine looked at him. His mind flashed to the moment the crown was placed upon his head, to the cheers in the streets, to the ghosts of history whispering in the wind.
No.
No one could be prepared for what was coming.
But he had no choice.
"I became emperor today," he said, his voice steady. "Now, it's time I started acting like one."
Sphrantzes smirked slightly. "Then let us begin."
With that, the council was decided. There would be no submission. There would be no surrender.
Byzantium had its emperor.
And Demetrios Palaiologos would soon learn the cost of claiming what was not his.