Dark Shadows Looming

"The scheme has failed... the 'cub' defused the situation unexpectedly."

A hooded figure spoke in the darkness, their voice no louder than a whisper.

"Unfortunate... but not beyond what we anticipated."

Another voice, equally cloaked in shadow, answered with an eerie calm.

"Tch..."

A third figure clicked their tongue, the sound cutting through the stillness like a blade.

"You assured us the 'cub' would pose no threat. Yet here we are, facing failure. How pathetic..."

Their tone dripped with scorn, each word as sharp as a dagger.

"You—"

The first figure's voice trembled with rage, ready to retaliate, but a commanding voice sliced through the tension like a whip.

"Enough. Both of you."

The cold authority in the voice silenced them immediately, like a predator stalking closer, its presence suffocating.

The tension coiled tighter around the room, centering on the figure seated before them. Like the others, they were shrouded in shadows, but a sliver of moonlight revealed the lower half of their form—a figure seated in an ornate chair, one leg crossed over the other, their left hand cradling their cheek with a gesture of detached contemplation.

But it was the eyes that dominated the room—glinting with malevolent intent. Even the darkness couldn't hide them, red as blood, capable of dealing death with just a glance, should their owner so choose.

In their right hand, a dagger, its blade still slick with fresh blood, gleamed in the dim light. Whose blood? And what message did it send?

"The mission remains a success," the leader spoke, their voice as cold as the steel they held. "But we do not tolerate... failure."

They rose from the chair and turned toward a window overlooking the plaza below. In the moonlight, a peculiar scene unfolded—people kneeling before a tall, youthful figure.

"Please, kill me... I have sinned!"

The first figure's voice cracked with fear. They fell to their knees, their forehead striking the floor with a sickening thud, blood seeping into the stone.

The second figure observed with icy detachment, their face betraying no emotion. The third sneered, barely concealing their contempt.

The leader remained silent, their gaze fixed on the lone figure standing defiant amidst the kneeling crowd. No one could decipher the emotion in those blood-red eyes.

"Not now..." The words slipped from the leader's lips, cold and unyielding as a winter wind. The other figures stiffened.

"I will not execute our best asset... yet," the leader continued, a chilling reminder of the razor-thin line between survival and death.

"But understand this: another failure will not be tolerated. The 'Prince's' benevolence cannot be tarnished by further... incompetence."

The leader's eyes narrowed, their gaze piercing the darkness. The room fell silent, each figure knowing they had been granted mercy—for now.

A sinister smile curled the leader's lips.

"Withdraw... for the moment. 'Blackthorne,' reassess the 'cub.' Our intelligence on him seems... inadequate. How intriguing..."

The second figure, 'Blackthorne,' placed a hand over their chest and bowed deeply.

"Your wish is my command." With that, they melted into the shadows, leaving only two figures behind—one still kneeling, the other standing with arms crossed.

"'Oblivion,' report the mission's status to the higher-ups. Leave out any mention of the 'cub'... for now..."

The third figure, 'Oblivion,' nodded, a mocking smile flashing across their face as they glanced at the prostrate figure on the floor. Without a word, they turned and exited, leaving the leader with the first figure.

"Now... 'Crane,' if you truly seek atonement, complete the task in Adrianople. No mistakes this time... or else."

"Your mercy is gratefully received!" the first figure, 'Crane,' replied, smashing their forehead against the floor repeatedly, leaving smears of blood behind as they scrambled to their feet and fled, not daring to look back.

Alone in the moonlit room, the leader stood motionless, their gaze still fixed on the figure outside who had captured their attention.

"John... Palaiologos," the leader murmured, the name rolling off their tongue with a sinister smirk before they vanished once more into the shadows.

Outside, John stood among the kneeling crowd, a sudden shiver running down his spine. He felt a piercing gaze from somewhere in the darkness, though he couldn't pinpoint its source.

"Ominous..." he muttered, casting a wary glance at the surrounding buildings before refocusing on the crowd before him.

------------------

"Markus, take your men and surround the entire manor."

After confirming his suspicions about Kephale Kosmas from the local townspeople, John ordered his hetaireia to blockade the manor where the Kephale resided.

"As you command," Markus acknowledged, diligently carrying out the co-emperor's order.

Markus had served in John's personal retinue for three years now. Like the other members of the hetaireia, his loyalty to John was unwavering—not because of John's title or birthright, but because of his charisma and genuine care for the people.

Markus, in particular, held John in high regard.

A refugee from Anatolia after the war between the Ottomans and the Timurids ended in the Ottomans' defeat, Markus had initially had little hope for his future in Constantinople. He had been on the verge of heading to Ottoman-controlled territory in the Balkans to seek his fortune.

But something kept him in Constantinople. Why?

Like Nikos, he was struck by how different the city was from the decaying metropolis he had heard about in rumors. The streets buzzed with life, and almost everyone he encountered seemed to be in high spirits—nothing like the hopelessness the rumors had described.

Before long, Markus understood why: John Palaiologos, the newly crowned co-emperor.

Though the changes were slow and subtle, they were undeniable. Infrastructure was being restored, trade was being revitalized, slums were shrinking, and education for the common people was prioritized over the privileges of the elite.

These initiatives were spearheaded by John himself shortly after his coronation.

Many refugees, including Markus, were curious about this co-emperor and the kind of man he was.

Markus enrolled in the education center that John had established to educate both commoners and refugees from Anatolia. It was a grueling but rewarding experience, and Markus, born into a peasant family with limited prospects, saw it as a blessing. The chance to learn new skills and secure a stable occupation in a foreign land, sponsored by a foreign ruler, was something he had never dreamed of. Usually, rulers prioritized their own subjects, especially the highborn, but John did the opposite.

He built a school for the poor and offered education for free. He even collaborated with the Church to ensure education was accessible to the needy. The potential of these initiatives was still a mystery to many at the time, but Markus could already see the benefits.

After graduating, he began to assimilate into the culture of the city, even starting to identify as Greek.

He enjoyed many of the co-emperor's innovations, particularly a sport called 'Graeco-Roman Football,' which was introduced shortly after he graduated. He quickly became enamored with the game.

His love for the sport led him to join the army, initially motivated by the desire to play, as only the armed forces were allowed to participate. This was part of John's strategy for recruitment, which proved highly effective in mustering new soldiers for an empire struggling with underpopulation.

Thanks to John's army reforms, previous issues such as depletion, lack of manpower, and a dearth of innovation were successfully addressed.

Eager to advance within the army and driven by a growing motivation to serve the co-emperor and the empire that had given him a new life, Markus worked tirelessly. Whether patrolling the city, assisting civilians, or helping build new infrastructure, he approached every task with unwavering dedication.

When news spread that the co-emperor was recruiting for his elite unit, the Marine Corps, Markus was among the first to seize the opportunity.

But the path wasn't easy.

Competing against thousands of aspirants for just 5,000 spots was far from straightforward. The excruciating trials and grueling physical demands—pushing the limits of endurance and bordering on the edge of death—nearly broke Markus. But he never gave up. The honor of standing beside the co-emperor was worth every struggle. It was this sense of honor that kept him going, teeth gritted and determination unyielding.

Each day was grueling. Waking up before dawn, running for hours, intense physical exercises in the afternoon, sparring in the evening, and studying the art of war from ancient military philosophers by night.

Before sleep, the drill instructors would berate the recruits, weeding out those with weak mentalities, separating the wheat from the chaff. Some sessions were intense, others less so, but more often than not, the pressure caused many to falter and quit halfway through.

After two months of this relentless ordeal, while many had given up, those who persevered could proudly call themselves members of the co-emperor's elite force.

But the challenges didn't end there.

Joining the corps was just the beginning. What followed was even more demanding—a daily regimen that seemed to grow more grueling by the day. Markus could count on one hand the number of times he fainted or fell ill during the hellish training devised by the co-emperor, often cursing him in his heart for such "cruelty."

The trials he faced as a trainee were doubled, sometimes even tripled.

At times, he wondered if it bordered on masochism.

Yet, he couldn't deny the incredible results of that brutal training.

Markus could clearly see how much he had improved. What once seemed insurmountable now felt like a simple task. Running 10 kilometers? He could now do it in less than 30 minutes—sometimes even 20.

Beyond physical endurance, the intense mental conditioning transformed every soldier in the corps. Their resolve became nearly unbreakable. In battle, they would charge the enemy without hesitation, even if outnumbered 100 to 1.

'What a monstrous co-emperor...' Markus shivered at the thought.

He had heard tales of the Janissary Corps, introduced by the Ottoman Sultan, notorious even among the common people of the Turks. Though once a subject of the Ottomans, Markus had always been aware of their fearsome reputation, whispered in passing rumors.

Children taken from infidel nobles and influential families were held hostage, brainwashed into Turkish ways, converted to their faith and culture, and then trained into emotionless killing machines through intense, grueling regimens from a young age when their minds were still fragile.

But even the trials of the Janissaries paled in comparison to the intense rigor the co-emperor imposed on his elite force.

Unlike the Janissaries, serious casualties among recruits were rare in John's corps. When injuries did occur, physicians were immediately brought in to prioritize recovery and assess the recruits' conditions before allowing them to continue training.

This marked a significant difference between the Ottoman Sultans and John. While John also forged his corps into effective warriors, he did so with a focus on welfare, prioritizing life over death. The Sultans, by contrast, cared only for creating relentless killing machines, indifferent to the well-being of their soldiers, even if it meant sacrificing them at will.

John's approach emphasized discipline, loyalty, and honor, whereas the Sultans fostered discipline but often bred questionable loyalty and dishonorable conduct. History has shown that many elite corps, like the Praetorians of Ancient Rome, ultimately turned on the very rulers they were meant to protect, leading to coups and betrayal.

John was keenly aware that creating a powerful force didn't guarantee eternal loyalty. He understood that loyalty must be carefully cultivated and maintained through proper management and a strong organizational structure.

John's reforms were grounded in meritocracy and discipline, principles he integrated into the very core of the army. The benefits soon became evident, with the positives far outweighing the negatives. Corruption was reduced within the ranks, and the organizational structure was streamlined to better manage the army.

One of the beneficiaries of these reforms was Markus.

Within a year, Markus rose through the ranks, eventually earning the title of knighthood—or hetaireia. Under the co-emperor's leadership, it became clear that knighthood was within reach for any soldier who proved their worth.

Of course, Demetrius was an exception; he had started as the co-emperor's squire. But for someone like Markus, an ordinary soldier, the achievement was deeply gratifying.

The co-emperor was not just a fair leader—he awarded knighthood based purely on merit, regardless of a person's status or ethnicity.

The true results of the training and reforms were put to the test during the war against the Ottomans.

When the co-emperor decided to lead his forces into Bulgaria against the mighty Ottoman Empire, many considered it a reckless gamble. How could a mere 5,000 men stand against an Ottoman army numbering in the hundreds of thousands? Elite or not, it seemed as unlikely as 300 Spartans holding the pass at Thermopylae. Yes, they had 5,000 instead of 300, but still, the odds appeared insurmountable.

Yet, for those who knew the co-emperor's nature, this boldness was not surprising. Despite their initial doubts, Markus and his comrades were eager to finally see action.

To their astonishment, the battle was won—and easily so—in less than two months. How? Through advanced weaponry they had never seen before and tactically brilliant maneuvers.

During the final confrontation with the Sultan's forces, the battle lasted less than a day. The Sultan's army was exhausted, and he had grossly underestimated the co-emperor's cunning strategies and commanding prowess.

From start to finish, the momentum of the battle was firmly in the co-emperor's hands. Whenever the situation seemed to turn against him, he swiftly regained control. The outcome was nothing short of a decisive victory.

After the war, Markus was promoted again, this time to the rank of Banda, commanding 1,000 men. His rise didn't stop there; he also ascended the ranks within the hetaireia, earning the position of vice-captain, second only to Demetrius, the sole captain of John's Hetaireia.

Such was the story that shaped Markus into the man he became—a commoner with no distinguished background from a foreign land, uplifted by the progressive policies of a foreign ruler. He rose to achieve remarkable success and developed an unwavering sense of belonging to a nation that was not his birthplace.

When John addressed the refugees earlier, right after he successfully defused the riot, Markus was deeply impressed by the way the co-emperor treated them. Perhaps it was because Markus had once been in their shoes, or maybe it was his lingering connection to these people, being a Turk himself. He empathized with the refugees but didn't harbor hatred for those who had oppressed them, understanding the complex circumstances that had led to such oppression.

Back to the present.

After receiving his orders, Markus and his men swiftly moved to blockade the entrance of the manor, encircling the area so thoroughly that not even an ant could escape. He then commanded his men to force their way inside.

But as the operation unfolded, an ominous feeling gnawed at Markus. Everything was going too smoothly. There were no guards to stop them, no sounds of panic from within, and the entire courtyard was eerily silent.

The manor itself was shrouded in darkness, as if it had been abandoned. Alarmed, Markus ordered his men to search for any secret exits or signs that someone had slipped through their encirclement, but they found nothing.

'What is going on?' he thought, his unease growing.

"Men! Search the entire town for any escapees—now! The rest of you, follow me! We're going in to investigate the manor! Hurry, we need something to report to the Despot!" The urgency in his voice propelled his men into action.

Leaving a contingent to guard the perimeter, Markus led a group inside, swiftly searching the first floor before moving to the second.

What they found in the last room was horrifying.

"What in the..." Markus's eyes widened, his body trembling.

Before him, a chilling scene unfolded. In the center of the room was an ornate chair, bloodied and empty. Bowing before it was a cold corpse, a man, with a woman next to him holding a lifeless baby. Around them stood a circle of upright corpses, lifeless yet eerily straight, dressed in guard uniforms—explaining the absence of any opposition.

And what of the maids? Surely, there would be servants in the manor. Indeed, those presumed to be servants were there, lined up perfectly behind the bowing corpse, arranged in two neat rows.

The sight was so bizarre and grotesque that Markus felt his years of mental conditioning begin to waver. But recognizing his disorientation, he quickly reoriented himself, gesturing to the men beside him, who were too shocked to move.

"Issakios! Inform the co-emperor immediately!" Markus barked. "Snap out of it and get His Highness here—now!" He struck the soldier sharply on the shoulder, jolting him from his stunned state. The soldier, realizing the urgency of the command, stumbled out of the room to find John.

What kind of twisted mind could have orchestrated something like this? Markus thought, his stomach churning at the grotesque scene before him.

"Search the room for any clues! And do not touch the corpses until His Highness arrives!" he commanded. "Eugenios, fetch the town priest at once!"

Eugenios nodded and quickly left to carry out the order. The remaining soldiers began to scour the room, searching for anything that might shed light on what had happened. But even after a thorough search, they found nothing—no evidence, no hint of who was behind this massacre.

When John finally arrived, his face darkened with shock and revulsion as he took in the horrifying scene.

"What in God's name is happening here?" John muttered, his voice filled with disbelief as his eyes scanned the grisly scene.

Markus quickly stepped forward as John entered the room, his expression tense.

"Markus, what is going on?" John demanded, his voice sharp. "Are all these people... dead?"