Isaac returned to his chambers and rang the bell. The chamberlain, Anderson, entered.
"Have Norwich and the others departed?"
"Yes, Your Highness. Albert, the spymaster, has taken over our network in North Africa. He's accompanied the Montferrat trade fleet to Rome. They'll conduct their usual round of trade, then use the opportunity to patrol the Gulf of Sidra."
Isaac nodded.
"Tell Fidel to stop raiding the Ottoman coasts and shift operations to the Eastern Mediterranean."
"Tell him not to worry—we'll find a proper naval base for him."
"Yes, sir," Anderson replied, making a note.
"And the bounties and rations for the troops—have they all been distributed?"
"All done smoothly. The new Finance Minister, Riedel, is highly competent."
"What about replenishment and recruitment?"
"The Black Legion was the fastest—they've already been brought back to full strength at a thousand men. Mercenaries, mostly out for money, but the quality is… questionable."
"Continue."
"The Oak Legion's progress is slower—they've just reached 550 men."
"The commander of the Purple Guard, Ibrahim, purchased some Turkmen and Tatar slaves to use as new recruits. They're nearly at full strength now, with over 900 soldiers."
"The Imperial Guard's second legion is still forming. There are many Orthodox volunteers, but the issue lies in finding qualified officers."
That was a problem Isaac had no solution for.
To be a mid- or high-level officer, one needed not just combat experience and martial skill, but also literacy. That disqualified many commoners. In this era, knowledge was still a noble privilege.
But the Byzantine noble class was now in chaos. Among the great houses, only the Palaiologos family remained intact, and it was riddled with foppish young heirs more concerned with politics than the empire's survival.
That was why Isaac was eager to get the Royal Knight Academy back on track.
Step by step—hardships were to be expected.
Isaac spent the entire month of June in Mystras. At times, he sat in on his father's administration of the territory; other times, he visited the Knight Academy to observe admissions.
With the Latin merchants controlling the major ports, the Morea Peninsula's development had reached its limits. As more refugees arrived from the north, land became scarce.
Every day, locals came to court, complaining that refugees from Attica had seized their farms or that Albanian immigrants were grazing sheep beside their estates.
Constantine was overwhelmed—unable to offend either side, he could only assign judges to act as mediators.
Isaac's newly appointed Minister of the Interior, Isoult, had begun handling his daily affairs. While the post was mostly ceremonial, the minister threw himself into the role with great enthusiasm.
"Your Highness, the admissions for June are nearly finished. A total of 839 candidates were tested. Fifty-seven passed and have been admitted."
"There are now 103 cadets. They'll undergo a year of basic training, after which they'll be divided by specialization."
"Only 57 passed?"
"Your Highness, the physical condition of the commoners is lacking—most were eliminated in the first round."
"Did you do everything I asked?"
Isaac had previously instructed Andronika to visit the Demlin household every few days with gifts and gentle persuasion.
"That old goat still won't budge," Andronika said through gritted teeth.
"How about the orphan relief and the tournament—are those ready?"
"All set. The military orphanage has taken in over 300 orphans aged five to nine. They'll receive basic education and military theory training."
"The tournament will be held in a few days. I've convinced Prince Constantine to attend."
"Good work. I'll be there too."
…
Mystras, the Grand Arena.
This city—the largest in Morea—was once known in ancient Greece as Sparta.
The arena itself was said to be the descendant of the original Spartan gladiatorial grounds.
From 1204 until now, this arena—once a testament to Spartan glory—hadn't hosted a grand tournament in many years.
The people of Morea were more used to watching religious debates among clergy from various sects. Martial contests were a rarity.
But this time, word had spread that both Prince Constantine and Prince Isaac would personally attend. It was also rumored that Andronika, the academy's vice principal, would award academy placements to the top ten competitors.
These whispers aroused massive public curiosity.
The streets buzzed with excitement. Families and friends gathered to witness the matches.
The first week featured preliminary rounds, where Isaac had conscripted his finest soldiers to act as the opening gladiators.
Once the crowd's appetite for battle was whetted, registration was opened to the public.
These matches ignited a sense of martial spirit in the populace and gave them a sense of shared purpose and entertainment.
Clang—clang—clang.
Inside his father's forge, Garwin swung his hammer, striking the axe head.
The furnace roared, casting flickering light across his sweat-soaked face.
He wiped his brow, switched to a smaller hammer, and resumed shaping the weapon.
His father had refused to install a water-powered hammer, insisting on the traditional methods.
Strike after strike—until the blade was complete.
"Garwin! Over here!"
He turned toward the window where Bitri's face peeked in.
"Are you coming to the tournament this afternoon? They say a fearsome Turk is fighting—nobody can beat him!"
Garwin shook his head. His father would never allow it.
"Come on, you've got to live for yourself once in a while."
Garwin just kept hammering.
Clang—
He hit too hard—the blade cracked.
"How about this? I'll get my dad to lure your father away to talk business—he's interested in buying sickles. That way you'll have the afternoon free!"
Bitri's father was the city's biggest agricultural tools merchant, which was how they became friends.
Garwin hesitated.
"Great! I'll go set it up!"
Later that afternoon, old Demlin mounted his horse and left.
"Let's go! It's starting!"
Bitri called excitedly.
Just this once… Just this once!
Garwin clenched his jaw and ran out the door with his friend.
The arena was packed.
"Look! That's the royal box! They say on the final day, the princes will award the prizes!"
"And the winners will get into the Royal Knight Academy!"
Bitri was giddy, pointing to the Palaiologos crest above the royal box.
Garwin said nothing. Worry lingered in his eyes.
"Relax—just enjoy the show!"
Garwin found a seat, watching intently.
The tournament followed a knockout format. Each day, 64 contestants competed, whittled down to the top eight. Blades were blunted—no killing allowed.
However, each day's top eight could be challenged the following day. These matches had no such rules—life or death.
Today's eliminations were nearly complete. A Latin knight was pummeling a Greek warrior.
"Looks like the Orthodox side loses again," Bitri muttered.
"The past few winners were all from the Latin states or Turkmen tribes. The only Orthodox winner was Albanian."
Garwin shook his head, eyes glued to the match.
"The Latin is going to lose."
"What? He's breaking that shield!"
Suddenly, the tide turned.
The Latin charged in, thrusting his blade forward.
The Greek raised his shield.
Groans rippled through the stands.
The battered shield looked ready to collapse. Once gone, he'd have no defense.
Clang!
The sword pierced the wood, aimed straight for the Greek's heart.
But the Greek warrior grabbed the shield and pushed it aside.
Slice—
The sword struck his left shoulder.
With a sidestep, the Greek dodged the brunt of the blow and tapped the knight's sword hand with his own blade.
Clatter—
The sword fell. The Greek had won.
The arena erupted in cheers.
"Unbelievable—you actually called it!"
Bitri applauded.
Then the challenge matches began.
A Turkmen warrior entered, swaggering around the arena with his sword, provoking the crowd.
Despite their jeers, no one dared step forward.
"He's been the champion since day one. Everyone who challenged him has died horribly."
"I'll fight!"
A burly man leapt the barrier.
Moments later, he was bleeding. The Turkmen toyed with him, cutting here and there.
The man screamed and begged.
The Turkmen calmly walked up and beheaded him.
The crowd fell silent.
"Romans are weak and cowardly—no wonder they lose everything."
"Remember my name—Yelhan of Ramazan!"
He shouted in Greek, brandishing his sword. Everyone he looked at turned away.
In the stands, Garwin's face turned red. He clenched his fists.
"Let's go!"
He pulled Bitri and left.
That night, Garwin couldn't sleep. Yelhan's taunts echoed in his mind.
At midnight, he rose and pulled a sword from the firewood pile.
He'd forged it himself, using scrap metal.
If I were fighting Yelhan—what would I do?
The next few days, he snuck out with excuses, watching the matches with Bitri.
Old Demlin, busy with business, didn't notice.
The Turkmen kept slaughtering challengers, mocking the Roman crowd.
They boiled with rage but could do nothing.
"Tomorrow's the final day. You coming?"
Garwin nodded.
"You seem down lately."
"Would you be happy watching a Turkmen barbarian insult your country?"
"We're just weaker…"
"Rubbish! The Iron Paladins would crush them!"
"That was centuries ago… If we had such great soldiers, how did the empire fall so far?"
Garwin's face turned pale, then flushed.
Bitri shrugged and ran off.
At home, Garwin saw royal envoys had again brought gifts, only to be driven away.
He apologized, entered, and found his father still furious.
Garwin wasn't hungry.
"Father, don't you see? Prince Isaac isn't like the other Palaiologoi."
"What difference? He's just a smooth-talking schemer."
"He brought back a fleet from distant lands, defeated the Ottomans, saved the Corinth Wall—he brings hope to Rome!"
"Enough! Silence!"
Demlin slammed his fist down, pointing at his son.
"You… get out!"
Garwin fled, ignoring his mother and sister's cries.
He wandered aimlessly until he reached the little chapel.
It was late. The priest had finished his sermon and was tidying up.
"Child, what brings you here? Your parents will worry."
For some reason, tears sprang from Garwin's eyes.
The priest, Father Malvey, gave him a robe and a bowl of soup.
"Tell me, child. What burdens your heart? I'm old and useless, but I've seen much—perhaps I can help."
Garwin wiped his tears and poured out his story.
"Father Malvey, I want to become a knight. I want to charge like my ancestors and fight for Rome. But I can't abandon my mother and sister."
The priest smiled.
"Child, we are a people backed into a corner. If the Turkmen or Latins conquer this land—what then of your mother and sister?"
"You need not choose a profession. Just follow your heart. God will bless you, child."
"Now go home—your father is probably worried sick."
Garwin wiped his face, drank his soup, and managed a faint smile.
"I understand now."