Fallen Eagle-Chapter 29: Do What you Must

Dark-bellied clouds broke against the stone flanks of Suyren, their passage a promise of rain that did nothing to diminish the fortress’s grim majesty. It stood at the mouth of the Belbek River, a weathered molar of a castle guarding the largest pass connecting the Theodoran heartland to the northern wastes. Old, yes, built generations ago to blunt the force of the Golden Horde and now to deter their successors, but its bones were good. The stone was cracked in places, the mortar showed its age, yet it sat upon a commanding, detached cliff, its foundations as sturdy and hard as the people it was meant to protect, a product of the ingenious Theodoran fort engineering.
Theodorus reined in his horse, his small entourage coming to a halt behind him. He assessed the guards at the gate, his commander’s eye now an ingrained reflex. Their spines were straight with drilled attentiveness, but their eyes held the distant, glazed look of men standing a post, not guarding a border. They lacked the hard-won, hungry alertness he had forged in his own men at Probatofrourio.
Demetrios guided his horse forward. The old servant wore a new livery of Sideris grey and black, the crisp wool lending him a quiet, formal dignity. Behind him, perched on the same mount, Stefanos wore a matching vest, his single hand gripping the saddle, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe at the scale of the fortification.
Now that Theodorus had risen in rank, his servants had to reflect the pedigree. His new position afforded him a higher salary, but as he forewent any monetary reward, he had to pay for everything himself. The sizeable fortune of twenty hyperpera he’d negotiated from his brother had steadily dwindled to a third of its original sum - bled away with the bold purchases he’d made in gifts, clothing, supplies for the garrison, and even some of the shields and armour for his soldiers. He was hemorrhaging coin, and he could only hope this new post would finally staunch the bleeding.
“Hail the fortress,” Demetrios announced, his voice clear in the quiet air.
One of the guards snapped to a sharper attention. “You approach Suyren, seat of Lord Adanis Nomikos. State your business.”
“Captain Theodorus Sideris,” Demetrios replied, retrieving a vellum scroll sealed with the Principality’s double eagle. “Arrives to serve as military adjutant to Lord Adanis.”
The guard took the parchment with a gauntleted hand. “Welcome, Master Theodorus. I must deliver this to someone of higher authority. I beg your leave.” With a low, correct bow, he vanished through the gate.
“They are respectful,” Demetrios observed, a note of approval in his voice.
“They are a reflection of their lord,” Theodorus replied, his gaze drifting past the gate to the small, huddled village at the base of the cliff. The hovels here were just as ramshackle, the people just as thin, as any on the frontier he had left behind.
The systemic sickness was not confined to the fringes; the rot was in the core. To pay the crushing tributes to both the Ottomans and the Crimeans, to fund foolish ventures like the new privateer fleet, the Principality squeezed its people until they bled. That was why Theodorus had to come up with creative tribute systems for the villages in Probatofrourio; few had anything to actually spare living under the yoke of the oppressive taxes levied by the Crown. When the frontiers could give no more, the vice was simply tightened on the heartland. It was an unsustainable, cannibalistic system, a great beast devouring its own limbs to survive. And one day, Theodorus knew with a cold certainty, it would simply collapse.
The guard returned shortly after, a shadow detaching itself from the fortress gate. In his wake followed a man who seemed designed by a committee to be utterly forgettable. He was pale and bald, his face a smooth, featureless moon.
He came to a halt before Theodorus, his watery eyes blinking rapidly. “A-Are y-you M-Master Theodorus?” The words fought their way out, each consonant a hurdle.
Theodorus gave a simple, patient nod.
“I am S-Steward T-T-Theophylact,” The man announced, the effort of his own name causing a faint tremor in his jaw. “C-Come with me, then. If you p-p-please.” The final word was a particular struggle, a consonant he seemed to have a personal feud with. Theodorus felt a flicker of clinical sympathy; the complex name was a cruel irony for a man with such an impediment.
He followed the steward up the muddy track that served as the main artery of the small castle town. Theodorus’s eyes swept the desolate scene. The hovels here were as ramshackle as any in a remote village, their turf roofs sagging with damp, with a lack of any sturdy wooden buildings one might expect inside a castle town of this importance to the Principality. He noted the faces of the people - worn thin not only by food shortages, but by a slow, grinding attrition. Yet, for all the poverty, the street was surprisingly clean, the usual refuse absent. There were no beggars pleading at the edges of the road.
A heavy carriage, its dark, seasoned wood polished to a high sheen, rumbled past them, leaving the castle for the open road. Theodorus noted its quality - too fine for a simple merchant. Theophylact’s gaze followed it as well.
“A-a noble f-friend of his Lordship,” the steward stated, volunteering the information.
“Lord Adanis receives many such friends?” Theodorus asked, his tone one of casual curiosity.
“Oh yes.” Theophylact’s voice was colored with a faint, weary exasperation that confirmed Theodorus’s suspicions. “Our L-Lord enjoys hosting f-feasts whenever he can. P-Perhaps t-too frequently.”
The carriage and the feast were hints. While the common people were squeezed dry by taxes, their commander lived like a feudal prince, his court a constant churn of parties and political maneuvering. It was a prime breeding ground for the intrigue and alliances the Doux had sent him here to unravel.
They were escorted up the winding path to the fortress proper. It sat atop the ridge like a monument, a sheer cliff hugging its northern side. The castle itself was half the size of the Gabras palace in Mangup, its architecture austere and brutally functional. But the moment they stepped inside, that austerity was annihilated. Gaudy paintings of religious scenes and mediocre portraits of sour-faced ancestors fought for space on the stone walls. Vases overflowing with dusty silk flowers sat on every available surface. The floor of the second story was carpeted, a luxury so profound in this rugged land that it felt like an act of obscene waste. It was not the curated wealth of a true magnate; It was as if Lord Adanis had gathered as big a collection of useless, gaudy decoration as he could and arrayed it to hide the stone underneath.
The servants they passed were a jarring contrast, looking like paupers. Their livery was worn, their faces gaunt, but they carried themselves with a ramrod-straight posture that bent unfailingly at the sight of Theodorus.
They finally arrived before the first truly ornate wooden door they had seen. “The L-Lord is j-just beyond here. In his S-Study,” Theophylact announced, his voice swelling with a strange, borrowed pomp. Two stern, menacing knights in full chainmail stood guard, their presence and that of the Lord behind the wood no doubt the reason for the steward’s sudden formality. One of them knocked lightly on the door with a heavy, gauntleted fist.
“Thank you for your guidance, Steward Theophylact.” Theodorus’s voice was flawless etiquette. He gave the steward a deep, respectful nod, a calculated act. In a court like this, even the most overlooked courtier was a potential source of information, and, like he had with Demetrios when he’d first arrived, he could start laying the groundwork now. Theophylact blinked, visibly surprised to be addressed with such courtesy.
“Would you be so kind as to direct my servants to my quarters?” Theodorus asked, the word ‘servants’ a deliberate, necessary public declaration of his own status. He did not relish referring to his entourage as such, but he’d gleaned enough to understand that in Lord Adanis’s domain, impressions mattered. “They have a few possessions of mine to unload.”
“C-Certainly.” As the steward guided Stefanos and Demetrios away, the guard who had knocked re-emerged from the study.
“The Lord will be just a minute.” He promised.
The minute ended up stretching well into half an hour. Theodorus remained a statue of patience, his posture relaxed, his expression neutral, giving the two guards at the entrance nothing to read. Finally, a muffled, bored drawl echoed from within. “Enter.”
Theodorus stepped through the doorway and into a different world. A heavy, cloying perfume - musk and something sickly sweet like overripe figs - assaulted his senses, and he fought the urge to gag. Lord Adanis was seated upon a velvet-lined armchair before a great arched window that offered a commanding view of the Belbek River gurgling through the vale below. Heavy tapestries, their threads thick with dust, swallowed the sound and light, turning the room into a gilded cavern. On the far wall hung a portrait of the Lord, heroic and impossibly flattering.
The man himself was a study in cultivated decadence. A luscious mane of dark brown hair, oiled and immaculate, framed a face that was handsome in a soft, predatory way. His beard was manicured to a perfect, sharp line. He wore a vest of bourbon silk, the color of rich wine, not the purple of the state, and idly turned a silver letter opener in his long, elegant fingers.
He was undeniably vain, but as Theodorus took his measure, he saw the predatory gleam in the man’s half-lidded eyes. His voice, when it came, was a smooth baritone that stretched into a lazy, arrogant drawl.
“Captain. My sincerest apologies for the delay.” The expression he offered was a flawless performance of regret. “I trust you were not unduly inconvenienced.”
“Of course not, my Liege.” Remus had remarked that the man disparately enjoyed being addressed not by military rank but by his noble title. “It gave me time to prepare myself for the audience.” He executed a perfectly servile, low bow. This was a man he had to impress at all costs, for he needed to gain his trust to be able to betray it afterwards.
“Allow me to introduce myself, my Lord. I am Captain Theodorus, sent by the Prince to serve as your military adjudant here in Suyren.”
“Yes. I was informed.” Adanis did not look pleased. He set the letter opener down with a soft click. “In truth, Captain, I find myself well-attended by my own aides. An extra pair of hands, while a gesture I appreciate from His Majesty,” He added the caveat solely because it was the Prince who had commanded it. “Is not, at present, required. I confess I am at a loss as to what duties you might perform.”
It was the initial probe, a swift and elegant attempt to render an unwanted intruder like him irrelevant. Theodorus parried it smoothly. “You may have heard of my recent victory against the northern scum, my Liege.”
“A border skirmish, as I recall. Yes.” Adanis waved his hand dismissively. As much as Remus despised the man, their mannerisms and ability to underplay others’ achievements were uncannily similar. They were men cut from the same perfumed cloth.
“I employed a system of advanced reconnaissance by partnering with the local shepherds and hunters, setting up a pyre network to create a more complex, responsive system.”
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“We already have a pyre relay system, Captain. One I believe to be sufficient.” Adanis interrupted, his boredom a palpable force.
“I do not doubt it for a moment, my Lord,” Theodorus conceded with a disarming bow of the head. “My intention is not to replace it, but to build on top of it. The evacuation protocols and scorched-earth tactics we developed allowed us to dictate the terms of the engagement, to bait the Crimeans into a killing field of our own design. The Megas Doux believed such strategies might prove useful here at the heart of our northern defenses.”
The subtle mention of the Doux’s name was a carefully placed weight on the scales of power. Adanis’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, his fingers stroking the perfect lines of his beard. “I am aware of the Doux’s wishes,” Was all he said, but the lack of deference was a declaration in itself.
The fact that he didn’t immediately bow his head to the authority of the man in Mangup spoke to the weakened grip that the Prince and the Doux held over the commanders of their fortresses. They behaved like petty lords despite the fact that Mangup was less than a day away.
Theodorus was at a crossroads; he could challenge the man and invoke the Doux’s authority, but his main mission remained imperative, and he had to win over the man before him to accomplish it. A direct confrontation, leaning on the Doux’s power, would be a fatal error. Remus’s intel had been clear: Adanis crushed any challenge to his authority. Therefore, Theodorus would not challenge it. He would offer to help enhance it.
“But of course, the Doux is far away in Mangup,” Theodorus said, his voice shifting into a tone of shared, conspiratorial confidence. “My direct superior is you, my Liege. Should other, more pressing duties require my attention here, this… pet project of the Doux’s… can certainly be delayed.” He framed the words as a deferential concession that simultaneously distanced himself from the ‘Doux’s project’. Now, he appeared to be a loyal subordinate offering his master a way to gracefully sidestep the demands of a distant power. He was handing Adanis a victory over the Doux, a victory that gained Theodorus more than it cost him. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best he could do in the situation. To give nothing would be seen as insubordination.
A slow, pleased smile bloomed on Adanis’s face. “Indeed, such duties could certainly be found for you, my good Captain.” In Adanis’s mind, he had won. The boy understood the proper order of things.
Theodorus bowed low, a perfect picture of gratitude. “Thank you, my Lord. I wish only to prove my worth to you.”
“I knew you were a canny one, Captain,” Adanis chuckled, the sound rich and self-satisfied. “At least the rumors in that regard were not exaggerated.” He gestured to the doorway, practically shooing Theodorus away. “You must give me time to deliberate upon what tasks might best suit your talents. You will hear from me on the morrow. Morning inspections are one hour after dawn in the courtyard. Make sure to be there without delay.”
“Of course, my Liege.” Theodorus recognized the dismissal and moved to the exit immediately. Remus’s most crucial intel was the knowledge that the Lord prized above all, useful lackeys who anticipated his every need. He was a lover of comfort and convenience, a man who would always choose the path of least resistance. To ingratiate oneself, one simply had to become that path. And that meant executing every direct order quickly and flawlessly.
Theodorus exited into the hallway, his mind mapping future avenues of attack, when he nearly collided with a young woman who had been waiting just outside the door. She was a flash of color in the gloom, her hair the color of burnished copper cascading in a smooth waterfall around her shoulders. Her dress, the same rich wine-red as her father’s vest, was intricately embroidered at the collar and cuffs. A light, skillful application of makeup framed high cheekbones and thin lips painted a subtle shade of crimson. She looked startled, her wide eyes locking with his for a heavy second before she dropped into a hasty bow, a blush rising on her cheeks.
“Ah - pardon me, good Captain. I must see my father.”
She already knew who he was. “Please, my Lady,” Theodorus said, stepping aside with a small bow of his own.
He moved on as she slipped past him into the study, the encounter already fading from his mind. Adanis would give him some important-sounding but ultimately ignoble task to perform, he was sure. But he had his foot in the door. That was all that mattered.
So lost was Theodorus in his thoughts that he did not see the look the girl shot back at his retreating form. The blush was gone, the surprise replaced by an intense, calculated assessment.
The final ascent to Chufut-Kale was a trial. Each step on the steep, inclined path sent a fresh spike of agony through Nur’s exhausted legs, but he maintained a punishing, steady cadence. He was a ruin of a man, caked in layers of grime, sweat, and the crusted, black blood of his own men and horse.
“Who goes there?!” The gate guard’s voice was a sharp, arrogant bark. His armor was polished, his saber hilt gleaming, a stark contrast to the battered, filth-stained laminated armour Nur wore - he hadn’t bothered to clean himself at any of the streams he had passed through on the journey here.
Nur did not answer. He simply kept walking, his eyes fixed on the gate, a ghost marching toward his own judgment. The guards’ hands went to their weapons, the rasp of steel exiting a scabbard a familiar sound. They took up defensive stances as he entered their killing range.
“Filthy vagabond!” the lead guard snarled, emboldened by his comrades. “If you’re so eager to throw your life away, we are happy to oblige.”
Nur stopped. He slowly lifted his head, and through the tangled, matted curtain of his hair, his eyes found the guard. They were the color of a winter sky, pale and utterly savage. “Get out of my fucking way.” He rasped, his voice a herald of the coming winter.
The guards froze. It wasn’t just the raw menace in his voice. It was his eyes. They had seen them before, looking down from the Khan’s high seat. They could scarcely believe it. The Kalga-Sultan - disappeared for half a week and presumed dead - stood before them looking like a ghoul dredged from a battlefield grave. The sheer, impossible absurdity of it shattered their discipline. They parted like water before him.
The lead guard finally found his voice as Nur strode past. “My Kalga! A-are you headed to the palace?”
Nur didn’t break stride. The guard scurried to keep pace. “Do you need an escort? We can-”
“I told you,” Nur stopped, turning his head just enough for the man to see the promise of murder in his eyes, “To get out of my way. If I have to repeat myself again, it will be the last thing you hear.” The man opted then to move at a distance, following in Nur’s footsteps while yelling out orders to his subordinates.
A galloping horse told Nur that an advance runner was being sent, and a cordon of men descending from the castle to escort him in a protective circle told him the message had been received. He ignored them, his path a straight, direct line. He aimed his path to the south postern gate, not because he wanted a more inconspicuous entrance to avoid scrutiny, but simply because it was the closest trajectory to his objective.
Waiting for him was Yusuf. The Khan’s enforcer was a statue carved from scarred flesh and iron will, his bulging muscles a tapestry of a thousand battles. He stood bare-chested despite the biting wind, a hide vest doing little to conceal the ruin of his torso. His arms were crossed, his expression stone.
When Nur finally reached the gate, the statue spoke, his voice a deep, nasally rumble from a nose that had been broken too many times. “You finally show up. Looking like this.”
“Where is the Khan?” Nur did not break his stride. Rasping out the words through an utterly parched throat. “I must see him.”
Yusuf did not move. He simply filled the space, an immovable object Nur ran into. “Take a bath. The Khan will see you after.”
Nur stopped, his glare a physical blow. Yusuf’s stony expression didn’t flicker.
“
Go.
” The executioner added, his voice dropping to a cold, flat register. “I will not have a disgraced dog stain the Khan’s hall.”
Nur seethed, his hand tightening on the hilt of his saber, the only thing he had left. For a full minute, they stood locked in a silent, brutal war of wills. Yusuf stared him down, his own hand resting on the axe at his belt, the pressure in the narrow gateway building until it felt it could crack stone.
Nur acquiesced with a silent, savage nod and stormed his way to the royal baths. He forewent the steam and fragrant oils prepared for him, choosing instead the punishing shock of an icy plunge. He scrubbed his skin raw with a coarse brush until it bled.
He dressed in a simple white linen
gomlek
that felt abrasive against his flayed skin, pulling on loose fighting trousers. He draped only a single
kaftan
over his shoulders - a long silk robe of complex, severe geometric patterns. His golden-dipped
kusak
was the last thing he tied around his waist. It felt heavier in his hand than he remembered, the metal still carrying the faint, coppery scent of dried blood the servants hadn’t been able to fully scrub from its intricate weave. A crimson tinge now marred the gold. A permanent reminder. Nur’s hand clenched around it until his knuckles were white.
The walk to the antechamber was a gauntlet of silence. Servants and courtiers flattened themselves against the walls as he passed, their eyes fixed on the floor, their averted gazes a more profound judgment than any whisper. When the heavy double doors groaned open to reveal the Golden Brazier - the Khanate’s royal antechamber - the entire court was in attendance, arranged in a silent, hierarchical crescent. The air was thick with heat and the weight of unspoken condemnation.
A herald, his voice a reedy, piercing cry, broke the stillness. “Presenting himself before the Great Khan, Haci Giray, Lord of the Steppe and Sovereign of the Crimea, is the Kalga-Sultan, Nur Devlet!”
The title felt like a mockery. Nur began his long walk, his stride measured, his back an iron rod. He was ready for this. He had rehearsed the words, the posture, the necessary contrition. But his determination began to wither as he passed the room’s namesake - the great, shimmering brazier. There, seated on a low cushion just below the grand officials, in a position of undeniable honor, was Seit. He looked up as Nur approached, a small, serene, almost pitying smile coloring his perfect lips. Something was wrong. Nur fought the urge to grit his teeth, his stride unbroken.
He reached the foot of the Khan’s platform and performed a deep, formal bow, his right hand placed over his heart. “The Son greets the Father.”
“So, you have returned.” The Khan’s voice was a gravelly timbre that absorbed all other sound. “.”
“The southern raid ended in failure.” Nur began, the words tasting like ash. “The Theodorans were prepared for us, the intel-”
“I do not care for apologies.” The Khan raised a hand, and the words died in Nur’s throat. His father’s pale blue eyes - a mirror of his own - bored into him. “Nor for your accounting of the disaster. I have already taken its measure.”
Nur remained frozen, his mind reeling. He risked a glance at Seit. The viper’s smile had widened, a self-satisfied smirk of pure, unadulterated triumph. Nur’s teeth scraped against each other.
“What I need to know,” the Khan continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate quiet that every person in the hall could hear, “Is why. Why did my own flesh and blood, my heir, make such colossal mistakes? Explain yourself.”
Nur took a breath, forcing the chaos in his mind into a semblance of order. “I was goaded, Father. Perhaps by the very people whom you took your from,” His gaze flickered to Seit, a venomous promise. “The Theodorans met us with treachery; they feigned an evacuation with the villagers, a scheme that fooled not only me, but everyone present. There were scores of soldiers waiting for us,” Now he glanced at his brother, Meñli, who watched the proceedings with rapt attention for once, a mocking smile fighting its way to his lips. “The s we had of their military strength spoke of a broken-down fort and fewer than thirty survivors. It did not suggest-”
“First, you blame the man who saved the remnants of my warriors, many of whom corroborated his version of the story. One which you now dismiss.” The Khan’s voice was a blade, cutting him off. “Now, you blame your brother for your own incompetence? A brother who returned with plunder after striking their fort with less than half the men you commanded?”
Nur fought not to grow red with shame. “The situation was different, the Theodoran commander was not the same, they-”
“They are SHEEP FARMERS!” The Khan’s voice exploded into a thunderous bellow that rattled the very brazier. “Cattle to be culled at our whim!”
The injustice of it, the deliberate blindness, shattered Nur’s control. This wasn’t an audience; it was a pre-ordained execution. He would not be slaughtered on his knees. He surged to his feet, an unforgivable breach of protocol that sent a collective gasp through the court.
“Poor intelligence,” He found his own tone rising with the flush of anger in his head. “Constant goads from a coward in my ranks! A devious, perfectly laid trap! Those are the reasons for the defeat! From the moment they lured us into that valley, they held every advantage!”
“YOU WILL NOT TALK BACK TO ME!” The Khan bellowed, rising from his seat and descending from the Dais. Nur stood his ground as his father came to a halt before him, a stout mountain of corded muscle and rage. “I will not allow such insolence from a failure of a commander.” Nur saw clearly then that the outcome had already been written. There was no point in prostrating himself now.
“Do what you must,” Nur said, his voice a dead, flat thing. His gaze drifted past his father’s contorted face to Seit, whose expression was now a perfect mask of solemn, feigned concern.
“You have disgraced my name. You have disgraced this Khanate.” The Khan proclaimed.“You are no Kalga of mine.” Nur’s eyes became a frigid, dead lake. The hate in his heart crystallized into something cold and permanent.
“I hereby declare the position vacant,” the Khan proclaimed, his voice rising again to fill the hall. “Any of my sons may claim it. Their valor shall be the deciding blade.” He stared down at Nur, and for a heartbeat, a strange, unreadable gleam flickered in his eyes. “Remove this disgrace from my sight.”
Two guards moved to grab Nur’s arms. He shrugged them off with a violence that made them recoil. “I can leave on my own.”
He turned, his back ramrod straight, and strode from the Golden Brazier. He did not see the pitying looks or the triumphant smirks. The world had narrowed to the roaring tempest in his own mind. As the heavy double doors thudded behind him, Nur mused how this changed nothing. He would have his vengeance. Now he simply had a more winding path to carry it out and more targets to heap it upon along the way.
Winter was coming, and revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold.