Capital of the Despotate of Morea, Mystras.
It was early summer. The humidity was beginning to subside, and the temperatures hadn't yet peaked—it was the most pleasant time of the year.
In the fields, farmers were busy harvesting wheat, hoping to plant other crops before the autumn sowing. Many households cultivated grapes or olives—the peninsula's most important cash crops. Wine and olive oil from Morea were exported abroad.
Closer to the city, small textile workshops had sprung up. Workers used primitive tools to weave wool or silk into cloth. But the fine silk and warm woolen fabrics weren't for the common folk. Most farmers and townspeople grew flax and wove linen garments themselves.
After harvesting, the farmers would take the fruits of their labor to the city to sell.
Mystras was the largest city in Morea, overlooked by a fortress on the hillside—the stronghold of the Palaiologos family.
Its walls were sturdy and sat atop a hill, long maintained by successive Despots of Morea as the last fallback in wartime.
When Constantine was appointed Despot, he governed with vigor, promoted agriculture, and relocated many refugees from war-torn Albania to reclaim fallow land.
With refugees from Attica also arriving, the Mystras region grew even more prosperous.
Inside the city, next to a newly completed building, Andronika Palaiologos stood proudly, admiring the Greek inscription above the door:
Royal Knight Academy
"Your Highness, the Academy building, along with the war orphanage and convalescent home, are complete. We plan to build a hospital next," she said.
"The first group of war orphans and wounded veterans have already moved in. The first cadets are mainly children of our soldiers. A few eager youths passed my evaluations and were also admitted."
Isaac nodded.
"Any difficulties?"
"The biggest problem is the lack of instructors. The Empire used to have a full training system, but decades of decline have eroded it. The military now relies too heavily on mercenaries and levied peasants…"
It was a headache Isaac knew well.
Most current royal instructors were showmen, heavily influenced by Western nobility, obsessed with flashy techniques that were useless on the battlefield.
Veterans like Mikhail—battle-tested and experienced—were too rare.
"When we were young, there were still some good royal instructors," Andronika continued. "Some had trained the ironclad knights and the Varangian Guard. But now… most are gone, disillusioned, or have moved on."
Isaac sighed.
The Empire was in terrible shape. Strategically vulnerable, diplomatically stagnant. Its educational and administrative systems still functioned, but were of limited use.
As for military training?
Forget it. The emperor could barely pay the troops.
After some thought, Isaac offered, "I'll give you three options. Use your judgment."
"First, we can try to hire Western instructors to train our knights and officers."
"Don't expect too much. They won't share their best secrets."
"Second, we now have the right to print royal books. Leo VI's Tactics, Vegetius's De Re Militari, Emperor Maurice's Strategikon, and other military texts—these can be assigned as student readings."
"But don't blindly trust the books. Try to develop doctrines that suit our needs."
"Third, track down former imperial instructors and veterans of elite units. Recruit them as teachers."
The Empire once had elite troops.
Most famous were the legendary Ironclad Knights and the fearless Varangian Guard.
The Ironclad Knights were a luxury only powerful dynasties could afford. After the Komnenos dynasty, the corps ceased to exist in organized form.
Later, Michael VIII gathered surviving veterans. Though he couldn't equip them with proper armor or horses, he hired them as instructors to preserve their knowledge, awaiting the Empire's resurgence.
But civil wars scattered them. Now, only a ceremonial Varangian detachment remained.
"We also captured several dozen soldiers from the Golden Throne during the naval battle. I've had them convert to Orthodoxy."
"Let them train the war orphans—for now. But civilian instructors must be trustworthy Orthodox Greeks."
"Yes, Your Highness."
...
"Garwin! Did you hear? Prince Isaac's Royal Knight Academy is now recruiting across Mystras. Anyone strong enough can join. Want to try?"
Garwin Nejad trudged home, carrying a huge bundle of firewood on his back. Speaking to him was Bitri, one of his few friends, a year older but much shorter and slighter.
Garwin was tall and burly—just like his father.
He shook his head. Because of his family background, he was withdrawn.
His father was a mediocre blacksmith, barely scraping by, and a heavy drinker. When drunk, he often mumbled cryptically.
Garwin once thought his father just a drunkard—until the day he joined him to chop wood and they were ambushed by five armed bandits.
His father dispatched them with a woodcutter's blade in less than ten minutes.
Garwin would never forget that furious glare, bulging muscles, and the flashing of the blade.
To his father, killing seemed more like a skill than a desperate act.
Garwin had been paralyzed with fear.
Back home, he begged to learn swordplay—but was harshly refused and beaten.
After that, his father pushed him harder to learn smithing and forbade him from playing knight games with other children.
Garwin resigned himself to becoming a blacksmith.
Then one day, after buying charcoal, he encountered some Latin boys from Constantinople.
They spoke Greek loudly, mocking the emperor's weakness, imitating him begging their fathers for money.
"Greek trash—how dare you call yourselves Romans?" they laughed.
Blinded by rage, Garwin dropped his pole and charged.
He got thoroughly beaten by the trained Latin boys.
That night, his father found him, carried him home, and treated his wounds.
A week later, when Garwin could walk, his father took him to the lake.
He carried a longsword.
"From today, you'll learn swordsmanship from me."
"My swordsmanship isn't flashy. It won't win duels—but it'll keep you alive."
The sword had a dark red blade, worn patterns, a broken guard, and a blackened hilt.
Garwin was instantly captivated.
He nodded eagerly.
"There are three rules."
"I swear by God—I'll follow them all!"
"First, live as a blacksmith. Peacefully."
"Second, never strike first. Only defend yourself when your life is in danger."
"Third, if your mother or sister is harmed, defend them to the death."
From then on, Garwin trained every dawn by the lake.
He did so for five years.
This year, his father said he had learned enough—and stopped teaching.
Later, Garwin realized it wasn't a refined dueling style—it was practical battlefield swordsmanship.
His father was a mystery. Why did a blacksmith know so much? Where had that sword come from?
He had tried to examine it secretly—but was beaten each time.
His father would never let him join the Academy.
Garwin shook his head, chasing away the thought.
"Shame, really," Bitri said. "If I were that big, I'd definitely apply."
On the way home, children threw stones at Garwin, knowing he wouldn't fight back.
"Drunkard's son! Big dumb brute!" they taunted, snot-nosed and giggling.
Bitri fumed, but Garwin held him back.
"Let's visit the church."
"To hear that old priest's stories again? I don't get why you like them so much…"
Inside a small chapel, the aged priest sat on a bench, telling tales to the children gathered around.
"Emperor Alexios rebuilt the Ironclad Knights. His son John, the 'Breaker of Fortresses,' led them to victory against countless infidels, restoring Rome's glory…"
"When the knights charged, even the fiercest foes knelt in surrender…"
"Waves of heavy cavalry thundered forth. The earth trembled, banners snapped in the wind, and the purple double-headed eagle soared above."
"Later, Emperor Manuel refined their tactics, emphasizing couched lance charges—they became even stronger."
"If they were so powerful, why do the Latins still bully us?"
"Yeah! Let the knights capture the Ottoman Sultan and make him dance for us!"
The priest fell silent. Then waved.
"Off you go, children. Don't keep your parents waiting."
Garwin patted Bitri. They parted ways.
At home, he dumped the firewood in the pile.
Inside, voices drifted from the house.
"Dilin, they've come to me. Want me to teach at the Academy—to serve the Empire again."
It was Uncle Skaven, his father's only friend, a hunter who often brought game.
Garwin was about to enter—but froze at the word 'Academy.' He pressed his ear to the door.
"Go, congratulations," Dilin Nejad said gruffly.
"They'll come for you too. You topped the roster back then…"
Dilin suddenly stood, bumping the stool and startling Skaven.
"Captain, what are you—"
Dilin marched to the door, yanked it open, and dragged Garwin in.
"Back to your room."
"Yes…"
Garwin walked slowly, hoping to hear more.
In the living room, Dilin was already dismissing Skaven.
"Leave."
"Captain, I know you're heartbroken over Borchi, but—"
"Go!"
Skaven fled.
"You too!"
Garwin retreated to his room.
He knew Borchi was his older brother, who had died when he was little. The family never spoke of it.
Confused, Garwin drifted into sleep.
The next day, life continued as normal—smithing, chopping wood, listening to stories.
On the third day, after dropping off firewood, his sister ran up, excited.
"Brother! Some men came to see Dad. One wore purple! So fancy!"
Garwin rushed to the living room.
"Greetings, Captain Dilin. I'm Isaac Palaiologos, head of the Royal Knight Academy. I ask you to return—to teach Rome's youth the sword and lance. To protect our people."
"Skaven already went. You don't need me."
"You're the only one fully trained with experience as an instructor. The rest only learned scraps."
"I'm old. I can't wield a lance."
"You won't fight—just reenact the training curriculum."
The door burst open.
"You mean it? Really?"
Garwin dashed in.
"Of course. Your family has served for generations. Your father is the last of the Ironclad Knights."
"They were expensive. Can you even afford them?"
Dilin turned away.
"I know. But if we start training now, we'll be better prepared when the time comes. It's about legacy—not wealth."
Stubborn old man. I don't need actual Ironclads. Just heavy cavalry that can win battles. Why so rigid?
Isaac understood. Ironclads weren't just armored riders. They trained from childhood—swordsmanship, lances, archery, tactics—completely loyal.
Their training embodied the entirety of Byzantine military thought, shaped by centuries—from Basil II to Alexios I.
"What a fine lad. What's your name? How old are you?" Isaac asked, taking Garwin's hand, calloused and rough.
"I'm Garwin. Twelve."
"Perfect age for the Academy. Want to be a soldier?"
Isaac unbelted his sword and offered it. Garwin hesitated.
"Leave him be!"
Dilin exploded.
"Why make him die for another Palaiologos?"
Andronika and the guards instinctively reached for their swords.
Isaac waved them down.
The room fell tense.
"Forgive me, Your Highness."
Isaac waved it off.
"Tell me your troubles. We'll help however we can."
Dilin let out a bitter laugh.
He entered the room and returned with a sword.
"Our family has served for generations. My ancestor followed Emperor Alexios, first to scale Smyrna's walls."
"Alexios gave him this sword. It passed down to me."
He drew it—Isaac saw a faint double-headed eagle etched into the blade.
"What happened after?"
"He died."
"Unable to breach the inner walls, he charged under fire with Alexios's sword. When he handed it to his son, his bones were ash—but he still spoke of Alexios's greatness."
"Generations died for Rome. We weren't afraid. Defending Rome is every soldier's duty."
"But we fear dying wrongly—by friendly blades."
"My great-grandfather fought in the Two-Andronikos War—his friend beheaded him after laughing together the day before."
"My grandfather chose the wrong side in the Two-Johns War—murdered in his sleep."
"My father died early. I joined the last of the Ironclads. Our aged instructor taught us. We had nothing—but big dreams."
"The emperor couldn't afford us. We wore thin leather, wielded wooden staves, rode lame mules—yet we still charged like knights of old!"
"In the end, the emperor abandoned us. We scattered. I alone stayed—to finish my training with the old instructor."
"Before he died, he made me promise to pass on the flame."
"I did. My son Borchi became an imperial soldier. I was proud."
"Until one day—I heard he'd joined a rebellion."
"Your youngest uncle, Demetrios, turned him. He died on the walls of Constantinople."
"So now you ask—shall I send my last son into another civil war?"
"Who's your target this time? Your uncle? Your father?"
By the end, tears streamed down Dilin's weathered face.
"Leave. The Palaiologos family is not welcome here."
Isaac sighed deeply—and walked out the door.