Back at Domokos, Constantine's army had only a brief moment to savor victory before dealing with new threats. In the days following the fortress's capture, disturbing reports filtered into the Byzantine camp. Mounted scouts and local Greek peasants brought word of Ottoman raids and sabotage in the surrounding regions. Under cover of darkness, bands of enemy Akinci cavalry – likely dispatched by Turahan or local Ottoman governors – had circled behind the Byzantine advance. They struck at isolated villages and supply convoys with merciless efficiency. One dawn, smoke was seen smudging the sky to the south-east. A messenger from Neopatras arrived, breathless and disheveled, reporting that an Ottoman raiding party attacked them on their way to Domokos. Another report indicated that a supply convoy from Thebes was ambushed; the wagons were set ablaze and the escort was killed entirely. It was evident that the Ottomans were employing guerrilla warfare and scorched-earth tactics to impede Constantine's forces.
George Sphrantzes collated these grim tidings and presented them to Costantine in Domokos's captured hall, where a makeshift command post was established. "Emperor," Sphrantzes said, pointing to marks on a map spread over a rough-hewn table, "the enemy is lashing out in our rear. Here, near Neopatras, and here along the old road from Thebes… small raiding parties, but enough to disrupt us. They wish to cut us off or at least make it difficult to hold what we've taken." Constantine frowned, tracing the routes with a gauntleted finger. He realized the danger: though victorious at Domokos, his army was now deep in hostile territory with increasingly precarious lines of supply.
Worse yet, rumors started flying among the locals that Murad was gathering a massive army to march south. One of the Greek villagers who had fled into the Byzantine camp swore he overheard an Ottoman soldier mutter, "Wait until the Sultan arrives, he'll burn them all." Such talk, true or not, cast a shadow over the elation of the recent wins. Constantine knew that time was now of the essence – whatever the next move, it had to be decided and prepared before Murad's hammer descended.
Thus, a tense war council was called in Domokos just days after its fall. Constantine gathered his key commanders and advisors in the castle's old keep beneath a vaulted ceiling still blackened by soot. Outside, twilight was settling. The distant rumble of thunder hinted at a summer storm brewing over the Thessalian plain, and occasional flickers of lightning danced on the horizon. In the chamber, an oil lamp cast long shadows over the faces around the table: Constantine at the head, flanked by George Sphrantzes, Captain Andreas, and Despot Thomas. Also present were a few other officers, but the core discussion lay with the first four.
The Emperor opened the council. "Brothers and friends," he began, his tone measured, "we stand at a crossroads. By God's grace and our sweat, we hold Livadeia, Bodonitsa, Zetouni, Neopatras, and now Domokos. Never in recent memory has our banner flown over so much of Greece. Our strategy unfolded exactly as intended—thanks to Turahan Bey being occupied in Albania, we've executed a swift and decisive campaign thus far."
He paused thoughtfully, his eyes assessing each face around the table. "But we also know the enemy will not rest. Murad will come—with fury. The question is: what do we do next? Do we push further while we have momentum? Or do we secure and fortify what we've taken and brace for his counterblow?" Constantine's gaze sharpened, emphasizing the gravity of the moment. "I want your frank counsel."
Thomas was the first to speak, unable to contain himself. He stood up from his stool, one hand instinctively resting on the pommel of his sword as he said passionately. "We must press on to Larissa, Brother. Right to the heart of Thessaly!" He pointed north, in the direction of the great plain invisible beyond the dark window.
"Every day we linger gives Murad time to gather strength. Right now, much of Thessaly lies exposed and trembling. If we march fast, we might seize Larissa and perhaps even parts of Macedonia before the full weight of the Ottoman host is upon us. Imagine capturing Larissa – a rich city and the Ottoman regional capital. Its fall would cripple their hold on Greece and rally even more Greeks to our cause."
Thomas's youthful face was flushed "Yes, our men are tired, but they're inspired by victory. The locals are with us. Another bold stroke now, while we have the initiative, could make the difference between a short-lived raid and a true restoration of our lands."
He then did acknowledge the risks, waving a hand impatiently as if to swat them away: "Murad will come eventually, yes. But it is better to face him having taken his key cities, perhaps forcing him to negotiate or fight on our chosen ground. We can always fall back to these mountains if needed, but opportunity like this knocks but once." Thomas sat, breathing hard, clearly convinced that daring attack was the proper course.
George Sphrantzes folded his arms, his expression thoughtful but guarded. "I appreciate Prince Thomas's fervor," he said, voice calm and precise. "God knows, I too yearn to see our banners over Larissa, but ambition must reckon with reality."
He took up the wooden pointer with practiced ease, tapping softly at the map, each touch careful and deliberate, as if counting the cost of every inch. "Consider clearly what marching on Larissa truly entails. Forty open miles separate us from that city, through country that is hostile even if its people are not. Every step we take northward would force us to leave small garrisons behind, thinning our ranks, exposing flanks vulnerable to strikes from Trikala, even as far as Thessaloniki's garrison."
He paused, his eyes sharp beneath heavy lids, watching Constantine carefully, gauging each man's reaction before continuing. "And what about supply? We barely secure convoys through Thebes now. These raids in our rear, burning crops and wagons alike, threaten our lines further. We might reach Larissa hungry and cut off, isolated deep within enemy territory."
He sighed lightly, a weariness showing at the corner of his eyes, the burden of years and responsibility evident in his posture. "Picture clearly the moment Murad arrives with forty thousand at his back while we linger exposed upon the Thessalian plain. He could surround us and break us with one decisive stroke."
George spread his hands, pragmatism etched deeply into his expression. "My counsel is prudence. Consolidate. Fortify Domokos, Neopatras, Bodonitsa, and especially our hold on the mountain passes behind us. Turn them into iron gates which even the Sultan cannot easily breach."
He glanced briefly around the room, a touch of quiet urgency in his gaze. "And we must dispatch fresh envoys to potential allies—the Pope, the Venetians, Emperor Sigismund. Inform them of our triumphs clearly, press them to aid us openly. Perhaps, by next spring, reinforcements or even crusaders could bolster a renewed offensive."
He met Constantine's eyes steadily. "But gambling now with an advance deep into Larissa? We could win greatly—or lose everything."
Andreas listened patiently, his scarred hands clasped in front of him, expression quietly skeptical. When he spoke, his voice was gruff yet measured, carrying the blunt authority of a soldier. "Both sides speak truth," he rumbled, nodding slowly. "The army could march further, aye—they've bled and fought, but morale remains strong. Larissa would indeed shock the Ottomans deeply. Yet I've seen too many battles lost to armies stretched thin, supplies cut off, stomachs empty."
He jabbed a blunt finger toward the map, tracing the supply route that snaked precariously back toward the Morea. "Our provisions must cross hundreds of miles, Constantine. True, it's still early summer, we forage somewhat, but the enemy burns fields as they retreat. Already, Domokos strains to feed both our men and the locals who've stayed behind. March farther north, how much longer before we starve ourselves?"
He shook his head slowly, brow furrowed in quiet exasperation. "And our siege capability—consider carefully. Domokos cost us nearly two full weeks, and its defenses are nothing compared to Larissa's thick walls. We'd find ourselves deep in siege, staring helplessly across the plain for Murad's dust clouds, his banners on our horizon."
Andreas paused, drawing a steady breath as if forcing calm into his chest. "Yet sitting idle here also holds danger. If we dig in and wait, Murad will regain initiative. He'll burn countryside around us, picking off patrols, harassing our men until we're weary, starving, demoralized. The road to Neopatras is defensible, yes, but no route is ever entirely safe."
George interjected swiftly, the shadow of a diplomatic smile barely ghosting his lips. "Alternative routes, Captain, are exceedingly improbable. To the west, mountains bar passage entirely. To the east, he'd be forced into a massive detour through broken terrain near the coast. Even if he attempts it, we'd intercept and halt him easily near the choke-points of Thermopylae."
Andreas grunted thoughtfully, tugging briefly at his beard, his patience clearly tested, yet disciplined enough to reconsider carefully. "Perhaps, then, a middle path suits us best," he said steady "Advance partway, bait Murad into fighting on ground of our choosing. Set camp at Pharsalos, fortify strong enough to withstand attack without committing to Larissa's full siege." He frowned slightly, caution warring visibly with the appeal of such a strategy. "Even then, we'd have to secure our rear—no room for carelessness in this."
The debate continued for a while, with minor voices chiming in. Some younger officers, emboldened by victory, sided with Thomas – eager to drive on. Others, war-weary and mindful of the formidable Sultan, agreed with Sphrantzes about caution.
Constantine absorbed every perspective in silence, his expression thoughtful, almost stern in the lamplight. In his heart, he felt the same fiery urge as Thomas: this was a moment he had dreamed of – to reclaim empire's lost provinces, city by city. How sweet it would be to ride into Larissa in triumph! Yet his mind, sharpened perhaps by the strange dual insight of a man out of time, weighed the cold facts that Sphrantzes and Andreas laid out. Finally, the Emperor raised his hand, and the chamber fell quiet, only the low rumble of thunder outside filling the pause.
"My friends," Constantine said quietly, weighing each word carefully, "I've listened to your counsel—and I thank you for it. You all speak honestly, from love for our cause and our people." He stood, pacing slowly, the worn spurs at his boots jingling faintly against the stone floor. His face was shadowed, thoughtful, the lines around his eyes betraying fatigue. "Boldness brought us here—without it, we'd never have stood within Domokos. For that daring, Thomas, and every man who charged forward with him, deserves praise." He hesitated, glancing briefly toward Thomas, then continued, his voice roughened by the gravity of the decision. "But caution kept us alive. Without George's careful supplies, Andreas's sharp eyes and steady nerve—many who now stand beside us would lie beneath the earth instead. Victories won recklessly are soon lost."
Constantine turned toward a narrow window slit, eyes fixed briefly on distant flashes of lightning, stark and unpredictable, across the horizon. His voice dropped almost to a murmur, speaking half to himself, half to the gathering storm. "It's coming now, this storm. Murad is gathering strength and will strike with thunder at his heels. We have to decide—and soon—how to weather it."
Constantine faced the council once more. "If we rush to Larissa, we may indeed catch more territory, but can we hold it under the storm? If we stay here, we keep what we have but give the initiative back to Murad." He looked at the map and traced a line along the hills bordering Pharsalos. "Perhaps Captain Andreas's middle path is wisest: move forward, but not too far—just enough to force Murad to fight on the ground we choose, not in a city siege. We could select terrain favorable to our pikes and cannon." He tapped Pharsalos's vicinity on the map. "If we fortify a camp there, we'd also cover the roads from the east towards Velestino. Meanwhile, we send word urgently to our potential allies. Their mere preparation might tie down some Ottoman forces."
George Sphrantzes interjected respectfully, "Majesty, if we move to Pharsalos, we'd be halfway to Larissa anyway. That could satisfy neither objective fully… We might be too far forward to easily retreat to Domokos or Neopatras if overwhelmed, but not far enough to deny the enemy Larissa as a base." Constantine nodded. "True. It is a gamble. But war is rarely without gambles." Thomas added, "If we go that far, why not go all the way? Take Larissa before Murad arrives, then meet him outside its walls. We'd have the city's supplies." Andreas countered, "Larissa's garrison might slow us just enough to let Murad catch us during the siege – worst-case scenario." The discussion was passionate but respectful; all knew the weight of the decision.
Constantine raised his hands calmly, signaling the council to silence. "I have made my decision," he declared firmly, his voice steady amidst the rising sound of thunder outside and the gentle patter of rain against the roof. "The arguments have been compelling, yet caution must guide our hand. The wisest course is to play it safe. Let Murad come to us—we shall use every hour till his arrival wisely. Strengthen and stabilize our supply lines stretching all the way back to Thebes. Domokos is too exposed to hold against a determined siege; we will abandon it before Murad arrives, salvaging meanwhile part of its materials to fortify positions within the mountain passes south of Domokos toward Neopatras."
He paused briefly, letting the weight of his words settle among the council, then leaned toward the map again. "Here," he said deliberately, pointing to the plains south of Domokos and just north of the mountain passes leading to Neopatras, "is where we shall make our stand. We'll choose ground favorable to our pikes, pyrvelos, and cannons—open enough for proper deployment."
He tapped the map again for emphasis. "Murad will be drawn in if we offer a battlefield seemingly ideal for his cavalry, but it will serve our artillery and pyrvelos just as well. And being close to the mountain passes ensures we have the option of a disciplined withdrawal if needed."
"By fortifying our escape route and securing supply lines back to Thebes, we ensure this battle is fought on our terms, not his. Let him wear himself down chasing shadows—then let him march straight into the trap we've prepared."
The council exchanged approving glances, recognizing the logic in Constantine's cautious yet strategic decision. The Emperor had chosen prudence without sacrificing strength, giving them the flexibility to adapt and endure whatever storms lay ahead.
As they prepared to adjourn, a bright flash illuminated the chamber, followed by a crack of thunder so strong it rattled dust from the stones. The men flinched, looking about. In the eerie silence after the thunder, Constantine murmured, "A storm from heaven… perhaps a sign, or simply nature's fury mirroring the Sultan's." He managed a faint smile to ease the tension. "Either way, we shall need God's favor more than ever."