Fallen Eagle-Chapter 25: The Devil Whispers

The softness of his bed irked Leonidas, who was more used to sleeping on the cold, hard ground of a makeshift camp than the cozy confines of the massive stone structure that was Mangup’s barracks complex. His body, aching from familiar post-battle bruises and dead tiredness, rose with the pre-dawn’s muted light nonetheless, his internal clock finely tuned to Probatofrourios’s exacting routine.
Only as he stretched himself awake did he realize he didn’t have to coordinate any training drills today or meet with his fellow veterans to discuss the day’s work. He stilled for a moment, then continued his mourning routine nonetheless. No use in straying from it. Any day now, they’d send him back, and he’d have to do it all again. Whether under the same commander or not, it remained to be seen. The Captain had certainly done enough to warrant a promotion or some kind of reward, at the very least. Though of what kind it remained to be seen. The Prince and his bureaucrats had an extremely easy time dismissing tall claims from the borderlands.
He bypassed the common room, eerily quiet in the still dawn, heading straight for the kitchens. He had been stationed at Mangup many a time between assignments, and he’d made some crucial connections during his various stays.
“Madame Stella.” He greeted the flour-streaked woman as she pounded the morning dough, dancing to a little tune only she herself knew. She paused mid-push and prepared to give a nasty side eye to the unwanted intruder, until she realized who it was. “Leonidas, my boy! You’re back from the backend of nowhere?” Leonidas had to reach down to properly embrace the diminutive woman. Soft and fluffy, she was, just like her bread.
“I arrived yesterday, yes.” Leonidas wore an easy smile; he’d missed the vibrant energy of the kitchen’s unofficial matriarch.
“And you’ve not thought to greet old Stella until now?” Despite the thrilling reunion, she went back to pounding the bread. She’d once claimed she would declared she would resign her post if a single person went hungry due to a lack of food on her watch. She’d served the Gabras family for 10 years now.
“
Old
Stella? Who is that? The only Stella I know is a young beauty. Have you seen her by the way?” Leonidas mimed searching under the table and inside the cupboards.
“Ohoho, you handsome devil, you’ll leave plenty of damsels distressed if you go around shouting that sorry statement.” Madame Stella’s laugh was a boisterous, infectious thing.
“Couldn’t care less, none of them can cook a mutton stew like Madame Stella can.” Leonidas gave a playful wink. Madame Stella didn’t turn, but he had no doubt she’d understood it. The woman had a sort of sixth sense he couldn’t quite put into words.
“Laying on the flattery heavy today, eh? What is it you want?” She asked with a satisfied smirk at the compliment, despite herself. Praising her cooking was a fast way to get on her good side.
“A loaf of freshly kneaded bread for starters.” Stella blew out a stray grey lock in a derisive snort. “And an update on the castle. What happened while I was gone?” Leonidas might be a brute who’d rather solve issues with a straightforward talk and a fight if necessary, but he’d learned early on that the capital functioned on its own heartbeat. And you either learned to take its pulse or you were dead before you even drew your sword.
Stella’s face dropped at the question. “Not well, my boy. There’s a new pirate initiative or whatnot that has the castle buzzing.”
“I’ve heard.” The garrison couldn’t stop talking about it; they were thrilled at finally fighting back against their Genoese rivals. Leonidas himself couldn’t deny a slight thrill of joy at the prospect. “Is that a reason for concern?”
“Perhaps. I’ve heard talks that it's not all that it’s cracked up to be.” Stella looked like she wanted to say something more, and her reticence didn’t escape Leonidas, who’d known her for years. She wasn’t a person to not speak her mind.
“What is it, Madame?” He questioned, the words coming out terser than he’d meant to.
Stella stopped her kneading, something she was wont to do. “It’s nothing, old Stella is just imagining things again.”
Stella’s sixth sense extended to the castle’s very corners. She understood its ebbs and flows better than anyone he knew. Better than she had any right to.
“Tell me.” For Stella to be this rattled it couldn’t be anything good.
“It’s just whispers in the wall, but…trouble brews, my boy. And the household is fracturing. It’s hard to find someone who hasn’t picked a side.”
“Between who?” Leonidas leaned forward.
Stella hesitated, her mouth afraid to even form the words. “Between father and son.”
Probatofrourio, a fortress built for thirty, now strained to contain a little over fifty souls. The twenty-four captive Tatars were a constant, sullen presence, their simmering hatred a palpable pressure in the already cramped quarters. Theodorus, surveying the fort from the watchtower steps, had to admit the macabre truth: the high number of enemy casualties had been a grim blessing. Guarding even this many men with his remaining militia was a razor’s edge of risk.
He had quartered them in his own study on the upper floor, the most secure room they had, with enough space to house the captives and a door sturdy enough to be barred from the outside. It also meant the nomads' only viable escape route was through a daunting second-story flight. The decision had relegated him back to a simple bedroll on the tower’s ground floor, bringing back not-so-fond memories of his first week spent in Probatofrourio.
Time was a dwindling commodity. In a few weeks, the harvest would call the militia levies home, and his garrison would be gutted, replaced by clueless new recruits, its readiness plummeting just as it had begun to solidify. Though he doubted the Khanate would strike again so soon - he had done what he could to prevent that - the prisoners were a festering complication, a spark waiting for a draft. He preferred to be rid of them as soon as possible to prevent any further outbreaks.
Thankfully, the capital did not make him wait long. After a tense, suspense-filled night, the lone sound of a single horse, ridden hard, echoed up the valley. The men in the courtyard stopped their work, their hands drifting to their weapons, a reflexive discipline that was now second nature.
The rider who appeared was a study in contradictions. He was a man of astonishing height, all sharp angles and thin limbs, perched precariously atop a magnificent black destrier that seemed embarrassed to be carrying him. The man’s face was long and narrow, an unfortunate landscape made all the more notable by the complete absence of a chin. He surveyed the rugged frontier fort as a man might inspect a particularly disappointing insect.
“Is a Captain Theodorus present among you?” The voice that emerged was a thin, nasally whine that seemed to physically scrape the air. “I require his presence with the utmost haste.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the silent, unimpressed soldiers. “And a cup of warmed wine would not be amiss.”
His dismount was a clumsy, tangled affair, a flailing of limbs that ended with him stumbling to maintain his balance. A collective, silent judgment settled over the garrison. Their faces, open and watchful a moment before, became stony masks of contempt.
From the arrow slit on the tower’s upper floor, a few pairs of dark eyes watched the spectacle below. A low murmur, followed by a shared, guttural chuckle, drifted down from the captives’ quarters. In that moment, a rare, unspoken truce was forged in the courtyard of Probatofrourio, a bizarre alliance of Greek and Tatar united by a universal language: their shared, profound disdain for the creature from the capital.
By the time the ungainly noble stumbled through the short, level walk to the watchtower’s entrance, Theodorus was waiting for him, his posture erect and still. The staggering difference in their heights was almost comical.
“I was told someone was looking for me,” Theodorus said, his voice a model of courtesy, his expression a carefully constructed mask of geniality that did not reach his eyes. “Might I have your name, good sir?”
“Ah, you were already waiting, Captain. Quite splendid.” The man’s presumption that Theodorus had been specifically waiting for whoever he was took his breath away. “I am Remus Nomikos, second of his name,” Remus announced himself as a king would, and struck out his non-existent chin - a wholly ineffectual gesture of profound self-importance. “I am here on a royal charge to investigate the border skirmish that occurred some days past.”
The word ‘skirmish’ landed like a slap. From the corner of his eye, Theodorus saw one of the recruits who had held the eastern barricade tighten his grip on his spear shaft, his knuckles turning white. Theodorus’s smile became a brittle thing.
“I am told there were some savages captured during the squabble?” Remus continued, oblivious to the sudden frost in the air. He peered past Theodorus into the tower, as if expecting to see the prisoners chained to the walls.
“Yes, Master Remus,” Theodorus managed, his politeness undiminished through a great show of will.
“Well, let’s see them. I have a great deal of business to attend to in the capital.” Without waiting for a reply, Remus swept past him, leading the way despite having no notion of where he was going.
Theodorus followed, deliberately slowing his pace, forcing the official to wait for him at the base of the stairs. His mind raced, cataloging the man’s expensive but impractical riding boots, the fine but trail-unfriendly cut of his tunic. Was this man a fool, sent by the Doux to waste no one of importance’s time? Or was this Remus testing him, a deliberate provocation to see if Theodorus could be goaded into insolence and his claim dismissed? He was having a hard time discerning if the fop he saw before him was an act or reality.
They arrived at the first floor, which was by this point the picture of a model garrison. Neat bedrolls of the troops and their personal effects were tidily stashed away. Despite the press of belongings and stashed away post-battle loot, Remus and Theodorus could easily walk through the floor unimpeded. Demetrios materialized from the shadows of the storeroom, falling into step at Theodorus’s elbow.
Remus made a great show of looking around. “Where are the said captives, Theodorus?” He asked, the use of the captain’s given name a casual, slicing insult. Demetrios bristled, his face contorting in distaste. “I see none here.”
“They are upstairs, Master Remus.” Theodorus knew the man’s would be pivotal. Courtesy, no matter how galling, was the only path.
“In the
captain’s
quarters?” Remus’s thin, manicured eyebrows were two arches climbing toward his hairline. “And where, pray tell, are you sleeping?”
“Here,” Theodorus gestured to a simple bedroll, identical to all the others.
“With the common soldiers?” The question was loaded with horrified disbelief. Remus stepped closer, placing a heavy, paternal hand on Theodorus’s shoulder. The unwanted weight was a shocking, intimate violation. “That is most unbecoming of a man of our station, Theodorus. I will let you in on a profound bit of wisdom you’ve not yet learned. We must maintain a certain distance, for their sake as much as ours.”
Theodorus’s mind, a machine of cold calculation, finally identified the man as the ridiculous interaction jogged Theodorus’s memory: Remus Nomikos was one of the Doux’s aides, and a member of one of the most powerful Theodoran noble families; known for his ambition and lack of any discernible talent to support it. A political fly, sent to buzz on the frontier where his noise would be less noticed. As much as he wanted to lash out and remove the man’s hand from his shoulders, patience and diplomacy were often better strategies than direct confrontation.
“A most regrettable situation, Master Remus,” Theodorus said, his expression a perfect mimicry of pained nobility. “But a necessary burden, as you so rightly point out. I have abdicated my personal quarters to house the two dozen captives. It was the only way to ensure the savages would not escape.” He mirrored Remus’s words and tone, a common tactic to engender trust and camaraderie.
“Ah, yes. Duty.” Remus gave a dramatic, long-suffering sigh. “I suppose it cannot be helped. Well, let us see these prizes of yours, then.” He started for the stairs, and Theodorus let him lead, a predator allowing its prey the illusion of control.
At the top of the stairwell, two guards stood sentinel before the barred, iron-rimmed door to the captain’s quarters. Theodorus had chosen them with care: Ilias and Lazaros, two veterans whose stony presence was a silent testament to the fort’s new, hard-won discipline. They offered crisp, professional salutes as the party approached.
While the two unbarred the heavy set door, Theodorus whispered a quiet string of instructions to Demetrios, who disappeared back down the steps.
Remus stepped through the doorway with the unearned confidence of a man who has never known true fear. His stride died a sudden, stumbling death.
The room hit him first as a wall of stench, a staggering concentration of battered, unwashed bodies, dirt-matted sweat and a faint, dry coppery tang of old blood. The small arrow slits did little to pierce the gloom, which was filled with a tangle of wounded bodies. Their tanned countenances were grim and feral, glaring at their captors as if caged animals, their stillness almost preternatural. Their dark eyes, full of a captive’s flat, dead-eyed hatred, fixed on the feathered peacock who had just intruded upon their territory.
“Ah…” Remus swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin throat. “It seems there are indeed quite a few of them, Captain.” For the first time, his non-existent chin seemed to recede even further into his neck, his reedy voice dropping to a hasty whisper. “Well. Everything appears to be in order. The initial was quite accurate.” He was already turning to leave.
“Are you certain, Master Remus?” Theodorus’s voice was laced with a sharp, clinical interest that stopped the official in his tracks. This small, cold measure of revenge was a luxury he would allow himself. He wanted Remus off-balance. “Surely you must verify the numbers. For the official record.”
“No, no, that is quite all right, Theodorus,” Remus said, his tone now stripped of all its earlier condescension. The sight of the silent, glaring warriors had clearly impressed upon him the reality of the ‘squabble’.
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But Theodorus pressed his advantage. “We have captured some rather important individuals. Perhaps you could assist in their identification for the capital.” He needed to ensure the true scale of their victory was not lost in this fool’s . “One man in particular may be of interest to you.”
“And why is that, Captain?” Remus asked, his eagerness to depart warring with his courtier’s instinct for valuable information.
“Because he can speak Greek.” Theodorus unveiled, his eyes alight.
Remus’s eyes scanned the crowd, now much more intently. A Greek-speaking nomad was a rare prize. It denoted a highborn individual in the Khanate, as only official, high-ranking members of the Khanate interacted with the tiny Greek Principality. It was not a common language for a Crimean to know at all.
“And where is this man?”
“He is being cared for upstairs, Master Remus,” Theodorus replied smoothly. “I had him brought to the watchtower roof when I saw your approach. For the fresh air. And the privacy.”
Remus gazed down at Theodorus, truly looking at him for the first time. He’d expected a naive, backwater young man, full of boasts and with little manners. He’d half expected the boy to be half Tatar himself, given his family’s disgraceful genealogy. He’d surprised him so far. Granted, the bar had been low, but perhaps Remus would have to reevaluate his initial presumptions. The boy was cunning.
“Let us meet him post haste then, Captain.” The use of his proper title was a small but significant concession.
The wind screamed in the upper rooftop of the watchtower, carrying pine leaves on the swaying breeze down the mouth of the valley that ran into the horizon. It was a uniquely rural scenery; one that Remus utterly despised: a vast, uncivilized panorama of green hills and distant mountains, and a miserable substitute for the clean marble lines of Mangup, a fortress akin to a king when compared to this aptly named Sheep Fort.
In the center of this rustic hellscape sat the captive. He was an island of defiant stillness on a simple linen-covered pallet, his back ramrod straight despite the thick bandages swathing his torso and the crude, brutal stump where his left leg should have been. His eyes were closed, his face serene, as if meditating in his own tent rather than being held captive as a prisoner in an enemy fortress. He made no move to acknowledge Remus’s momentous arrival, sitting cross-legged…or rather half-legged in this case.
Remus silently chuckled at his incredible joke. He moved to share it with the young captain, but the boy beat him to it.
“He introduced himself as Mustafa, Master Remus,” The boy’s serious countenance and heavy tone made Remus reconsider the brilliant jest; this was perhaps not the best moment to share it. Although later the opportunity might present itself. “He claimed to be a high-ranking officer in the Khanate.”
“I am Remus Nomikos, second of his name,” Remus strode before the defeated and broken savage like an emperor before a slave. “I am here on a royal charge to investigate the battle that occurred some days past. Are you this Mustafa?” He magnanimously gave the Tatar face by acknowledging his name.
The brute opened one of his eyes to gaze upon Remus in all his glorious height. “Yes, you may address me as such.” The grammar was eloquent, but the accent was so barbaric Remus could barely understand anything out of him and actually misheard the man’s grunts. There was no possibility of this defeated disablee uttering such insolence before him.
“Excuse me? I believe I misheard you. I ‘may’ address you?”
The savage’s other eye opened slowly, and he fully faced Remus. “Yes, you may.” Remus felt a vein pop in his forehead, and a wave of blotchy red climb his neck. The gall of this savage! This insolent curr, born to mangy dogs and-
“Mustafa, you are presently a captive of the Theodoran Principality,” Theodorus intervened, his voice a calm, sharp blade cutting through Remus’s anger. He stepped subtly between the two men, a physical insertion of authority. “Master Remus is an agent of the Prince. He is the man who can see you ransomed and returned to your people.”
The words were a double-edged sword, reminding the Tatar of his captivity while signaling to Remus that this was a prize to be handled with care. Mustafa held Theodorus’s gaze for a long, calculating moment before he acquiesced.
“My apologies if I have caused offense,” he said, his eyes still on Theodorus. “It has been some time since I have spoken your tongue. I am… out of practice.”
Remus harrumphed, the indignity a fresh, stinging wound. But the thought of returning quickly to his civilized home was a powerful balm. He would endure this.
“Please tell Master Remus what you told me, Mustafa,” Theodorus prompted gently. “So this business can be concluded swiftly, for all our sakes.”
A calloused hand delved into the folds of the Tatar’s tunic and produced a small, triangular pennant. It was a tangle of dyed horsehair - crimson and black - woven around a silver clasp crudely shaped into a wolf’s head. He tossed it onto the parapet’s stone. “I am Mustafa, of the line of Ak-Kaya. A bey of the Crimean Khanate. My ransom will be paid.”
“That is for the Prince to decide,” Remus stated, his voice sharp with the need to reassert his dominance. “Upon my of what truly happened. And who you truly are.” The threat was plain.
“You will find that Mustafa speaks the truth, my Lord,” Theodorus said, his voice a balm of humility meant to soothe Remus’s ruffled feathers. “Please, question him. Assure yourself of the facts.”
Remus preened, pleased with the proper deference. He turned back to the captive. “So, you were the commander of this… squabble?” He began, his tone dripping with condescension.
Mustafa’s gaze was like flint. “I commanded a force that would have turned this fort to dust, had we not been met with treachery.”
“Treachery?” Remus gave a short, ugly laugh. “Or were your famed horsemen simply outmatched by Greek farmers?”
“We were met by a prepared army,” Mustafa’s voice was a low growl, “An army that hid behind walls of sharpened sticks rather than face us on the open field as men.”
“Our final estimations point to a force of nearly one hundred riders, Master Remus,” Theodorus interjected quietly, his tone one of helpful clarification. “A significant çapul.”
Remus’s eyes flickered with interest. A victory over one hundred riders had seemed an impressive story when he heard it back at the capital, but now he was finding out it was actually true. “And this force, it was yours to command?” He asked the barbarian.
“It was,” Mustafa said, his voice ringing with an authority that defied his bonds.
“With respect, Master Remus,” Theodorus added, a subtle counterpoint. “We believe Mustafa acted as second-in-command. The tracks of a single, heavily armored rider were seen breaking from the main retreat toward the deep woods. We lost the trail, but we believe the true leader escaped.”
“Hmm.” Remus’s eyes narrowed, a cruel, calculating light entering them. He looked down at the captive, his gaze lingering on the mangled stump of his leg. A thin, vicious smile touched his lips. “It seems your little leader managed to flee. A stroke of luck you were not fortunate enough to share.” He let the insult hang in the air, and Mustafa’s expression contracted into a snarl. Remus turned his back with a dismissive wave. “I have heard enough. Goodbye.”
Without another glance at the prisoner, Remus strode toward the trapdoor, descending from the roof’s raw wind and bypassing the utter squall of the impromptu dungeon to the more civilized quiet of the tower. Captain Theodorus, trailing a half-step behind him, was the very picture of a proper subordinate.
“Were you satisfied with the knowledge gleaned from the captive, Master Remus?” Theodorus asked. For all his inner calculations, his outward expression was one of earnest inquiry.
“Yes…” Remus said, a thoughtful, appraising look on his face. “It matches the preliminary s. I admit, Captain, I was skeptical. But you have scored a significant victory. I can only imagine what destruction such a large raiding party could have wreaked upon our homeland before being put down by the Royal Army. You have done well.” The praise was delivered with the air of a king bestowing a knighthood, but it was genuine. The sour look on the Tatar’s face had sweetened Remus’s mood considerably.
“Thank you, Master Remus.” Theodorus allowed a flicker of pride to touch his features, a carefully calibrated performance. “Please, allow me to escort you to your mount.”
As they descended into the courtyard, an unexpected sight met Remus’s eyes. Instead of the chaotic bustle of a frontier fort, the garrison was already assembled in the center of the yard. They stood in silent, orderly ranks, not drilling, but waiting with a patient stillness that was in itself a profound display of discipline.
“An unscheduled inspection, Captain?” Remus asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
“A demonstration, Master Remus,” Theodorus replied smoothly, a faint, proud smile on his lips. He stopped at the base of the stairs, presenting the scene to the official as a master craftsman might display his finest work. “Of what these men have become. With your permission?”
Intrigued, Remus gave a curt nod.
Theodorus’s voice, no longer the quiet murmur of a subordinate but the sharp crack of a commander, echoed across the stone. “ATTENTION!”
The reaction was instantaneous. Thirty pairs of boots stamped down as one, a single, percussive sound that made Remus flinch. The loose ranks snapped into a rigid block of men. At a second command, a wall of oak shields slammed into place with a unified crash, followed by a hedge of spear points rising as one to catch the morning light. They advanced ten paces, their steps synchronized, a single, cohesive beast of wood and steel. Then they turned about, a choreographed spectacle that lacked the polished grace of a royal parade unit, but was executed with a raw, ferocious intensity that was undeniably impressive.
“As you can see, the men’s discipline has improved,” Theodorus remarked casually, as if this stunning display were a daily occurrence. He led Remus along the edge of the training ground, his voice a low, steady counterpoint to the rhythmic stamp of the marching soldiers. “The wall reconstruction is complete, and the patrols are re-securing the frontier. We’ve also had to consider the logistics of a prolonged siege.” He gestured with his chin toward a series of neat, tilled rectangles of earth near the tower’s base, near which stacks of caught fish and small game placed nearby as if by happenstance. “A fortress that feeds itself is a fortress that cannot be starved out.”
The drills reached their crescendo. The shield wall parted down the middle with flawless symmetry, each half marching to opposite sides of the path leading to the gate. As Remus and Theodorus walked between them, a forest of spears rose as one, dipping in a perfect salute. A single, unified roar shook the air: “FOR THE PRINCE, AND FOR MASTER REMUS!”
Remus stopped, his chest puffing out, utterly seduced by the spectacle. “Color me impressed, Captain Theodorus,” he said, his voice ringing with genuine admiration. “You have done a truly remarkable job. To forge this… order from a provincial mob in a matter of months, and to conduct yourself with such courtesy, despite…” He paused, giving Theodorus a magnanimous smile. “Despite your family’s complicated history. You can be sure my will reflect your exemplary service.”
“It has been an honor, Master Remus,” Theodorus replied, bowing his head to hide his cunning smile. “Should this victory warrant a summons to the capital, you must allow me to host you for supper. I have a fine vintage from my family’s estate. It may not compare to the nectars of Mangup, but I would be honored to share it with you.”
“Nonsense,” Remus waved a dismissive hand, his mood buoyant. The inspection had been swift, impressive, and had yielded a story that would play exceptionally well at court. “You must let me try it. I myself hold several productive vineyards. Perhaps I can offer some small expertise on how you might improve your yield.”
Theodorus’s bow was a study in perfect deference. “You are too kind. Safe travels, Master Remus.”
This time, as Remus swung himself into the saddle of his jet-black destrier, there was no clumsiness. He moved with a newfound grace, a man buoyed by the weight of his own perceived importance. His cape billowed behind him like a dark wing as he spurred the great horse into a canter. As he rode from the valley, the early afternoon sun broke through the clouds, bathing the landscape in a soft, golden light. The hills were still rugged, the forests still wild, but Remus saw it now not as a savage wasteland, but with a grudging admiration. It possessed a stern, unyielding beauty, a fitting backdrop for the grand he was already composing in his mind.
“‘…for it is written, Vengeance is Mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’” Father Damianus intoned, his voice a low, resonant thunder that seemed to shake the very stones of the palace’s inner chapel. Jewel-toned light, fractured by the high stained-glass windows, sliced through the incense-heavy air, painting shifting patterns on the gilded iconostasis. Here, in this private sanctuary, Principe Alexios felt closest to God. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen,” Alexios whispered, the word a profound exhalation not from his body, but from the depths of his soul. He remained on his knees, head bowed, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white, trying to hold onto the sacred stillness of the moment.
Damianus descended from the altar, his soft-soled slippers making no sound on the marble. He sat in the pew beside the kneeling prince, a familiar, comforting presence against the sudden, sharp chill of the profane world.
“A glorious sermon, Father,” Alexios said, his voice still thick with devotion. The Metropolitan was more a father to him than his own, a steady hand to guide his spirit and soothe his roiling thoughts.
“The words were not mine, my son, but God’s,” Damianus replied, his own voice a gentle murmur.
“Then I pray He grants all our priests such a clear voice to speak them.” Alexios finally rose, the fervor in his eyes giving way to a more worldly intensity. “With your guidance, the scriptoriums will ensure it. My recent donations should see them well-supplied.”
“A truly magnanimous gift, my Principe,” Damianus said with a practiced warmth. “Your generosity gives us the strength to begin the new monastery on the eastern ridges. The future of the Principality is assured with such a pious ruler. The church is deeply grateful.”
“A gratitude I trust will not be forgotten when my time comes,” Alexios said, the words a silken edge beneath the piety. He was God’s humble servant, but he was no fool.
“Of course not, my lord,” Damianus inclined his head, a seamless shift from priest to politician. The unspoken pact was reaffirmed. “But tell me, my son. Why did you request this private mass? The weight on your soul is heavy today.”
The question landed in the gilded silence. Alexios turned from the altar, his face shadowed, the earlier radiance replaced by a haunted stillness. “I have been troubled, Father. The visions… they keep me from my rest.”
The priest’s kind face seemed to age in an instant, his shoulders stooping as if under a physical burden. “They haunt you still? Have you not been praying?”
“Every waking moment. But they come for me in my sleep, Father, where I cannot fight back. I cannot command my own soul to pray within my dreams.” The confession was a mark of profound shame, the source of his deepest suffering. Alexios’s gaze drifted to a dark corner of the chapel, as if seeing something there that only he could.
“The devil whispers,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-inaudible whisper. “And each day, it is a harder fight to keep from listening.”
The words distressed the old priest, a panic stirring in his eyes that Alexios fought to suppress in himself. “You must fight it, my Principe,” Father Damianus urged, his voice tight. “A pure heart is the devil’s most coveted prize. And yours is as pure as the white snow. He will not surrender it easily.”
Alexios gripped the old man’s hand, a desperate anchor in a churning sea. Damianus squeezed back, his face a mirror of concern. He was the only one who understood.
“They think me a fool, Father,” Alexios hissed, the words a venomous torrent he could no longer contain. The pressure in his hand increased. “The ‘Foolish Prince,’ his head lost in the clouds. I see the pity in their eyes. I hear their whispers.”
“The whispers are inside your-” The holy Father began, but his words stilled as Alexios’s grip tightened into a vice. Damianus let out a small, pained gasp.
“Even that viper, Philemon Makris, pulls my strings as if I were his puppet. He thinks me a pawn in his game!” Alexios’s face was a mask of incandescent rage, the veins standing out on his temples. A low growl rumbled in his chest. “All of them, squabbling over coin and land, while the infidels gather at our gates! While our very souls are at risk!”
A sharp, agonized cry tore from the priest’s lips as a series of small, sickening cracks echoed in the sacred silence of the chapel. He crumpled to his knees.
The sound shattered Alexios’s red haze. He looked down, his eyes widening in horror. Damianus’s hand, which he still held locked in his own, was a ruined, mangled thing, the fingers bent at impossible, unnatural angles.
“Father…” he breathed, letting go as if the hand were a hot coal. “Oh, God, no… Father, I am so sorry!” The rage evaporated, replaced by a cold, flooding shame. Alexios fell to his knees before the broken priest, his own body wracked with tremors. Tears streamed down his face, his apology a choked, desperate babble. “I didn’t mean to… The anger, it… it takes me. Forgive me, please, forgive me…”
Damianus cradled his broken hand to his chest, his face pale and slick with the sweat of agony. Yet, he schooled his expression into a mask of serene, paternal forgiveness. He reached out with his good arm and pulled the young man into a trembling embrace, holding him tight against his chest. “Hush, my child,” he whispered, his voice strained but steady. “God is merciful. Everything will be alright.”
Later, long after the royal physicians had been summoned and the priest had departed, Alexios remained alone on the cold marble floor of the chapel. The jewel-toned light no longer felt like a blessing, but a judgment. He stared at his own hands, the hands of a monster. The beast he’d locked inside of him had grown stronger, and its claws were scraping against his heart. Alexios prayed a desperate wish, for strength he did not have. To hold back the black demon in his core, who he felt slipping from his grasp. Because when he did, he didn’t fear for himself. He feared for them all.