Fallen Eagle-Chapter 4: Shatter the Board

The morning sky was a sombre grey sheet from which a steady drizzle fell, as if weeping in concert with the gathered mourners. It wet the shoulders of all equally: the household staff, the tenants from all three estates, and the grim-faced men-at-arms, all assembled in the family plot where Lord Konstantinos, third of his name, was to be buried.
The funeral was a dour affair, led by a solemn Father Mikael, whose pious intonations were subtly undermined by the nervous tenor of his voice. The holy Father seemed to live in a perpetual state of fear. He stood before the open grave, flanked by two of the three sons, each a study in a different kind of grief.
Iohannes stood nearest, looking less like a son and more like a successor. He was a stony island around which the bureaucratic men of the Sideris lands had gathered - weather-beaten reeves and clerks, their presence a calculated display of allegiance. A few paces away, Georgios stood with his household guard, jaw tight with rage, his hand resting on his sword’s pommel.
Theodorus stood off to the side, another nameless face in the crowd, doing his utmost to avoid drawing any unwanted attention. A solitary figure whose downcast eyes missed nothing.
“... and so we commit the body of our servant of God, Konstantinos Sideris, to the earth.” Father Mikeal concluded, his voice rising to be heard over the patter of rain on the mourners’ cloaks. “We pray his soul finds passage to a place where there is no pain, no sorrow, but life everlasting. Amen.” He made the sign of the cross, his gaze flicking nervously from Georgios’s simmering anger to Iohannes’s cold composure. “His eldest son, Iohannes, would now speak.”
The stern first son stepped forward. The drizzle had plastered his dark tunic to his skin, but he seemed not to notice. He surveyed the crowd with a ruler’s gaze. “My father, Lord Konstantinos, was a brave man,” he began, his voice clear and commanding, cutting through the damp air. “He was a shield for our people on this wild frontier. He bled with our soldiers. He died protecting our home from the godless scum who plague our lands.” He paused, letting the words settle, a silent challenge to those who would question his heritage.
As everyone’s eyes fixed upon Iohannes, Theodorus began his slow, deliberate drift through the crowd. He kept his head bowed, his face a mask of sorrow, even as his sharp eyes located Demetrios slightly offset from the crowd, in a perfectly innocuous position. He stopped beside him and, without looking up, moved his lips, the words a ghost of a whisper carried on the damp air.
“Did he come to you?”
Demetrios gave a nod so faint it was nearly imperceptible, his gaze fixed on the grave. “Last night,” he breathed, his voice a low rasp.
“And does he suspect you?” Theodorus murmured.
A slight shake of the old man’s head. “He believes the will is lost, or destroyed.”
“His legacy is one of strength.” Iohannes continued his speech, a flawless piece of political theatre disguised as a eulogy. “It is a legacy of duty. In this time of grief, we must not falter. We must honor his sacrifice not with tears, but with resolve. We must be vigilant. We must be strong. For the house of Sideris, and for the memory of the man who gave his life to protect it-”
“Deliver it after the speech, when he mentions the inheritance. Then vanish. Be safe.” Theodorus didn’t wait for Demetrios’s surprised reaction to vanish back into the crowd.
The pieces are in play.
The steady drizzle fizzled out as Iohanne’s speech came to an end. Theodorus thought it was fitting that everyone was wet enough to be uncomfortable. No one should be comfortable at a funeral.
“-Now comes the time for a new beginning,” Iohannes finished, his voice resonating with finality. “And I hope you will all join me in ensuring my father’s legacy endures.”
From across the grave, Georgios glared, a low growl of dissent rumbling in his chest. He stood among a cadre of young men-at-arms, their faces mirroring his own disgruntled defiance.
Iohannes ignored him, turning his address to the wider audience of tenants and retainers. “Now comes the matter of inheritance. I have scoured my father’s study, spoken to his confidants. There is no written will.”
Georgius’s eyes widened. He, too, knew a will existed. His mind leapt to the only possible conclusion it could think of. “Lies!” he declared, his voice an explosion in the previously silent clearing.
“It is not.” Iohannes retorted, his voice a cold, steady counterpoint. “Sir Spiros can attest to it. He was with me.” The old seneschal, his magnificent moustache swaying, gave a slow, deep nod. Theodorus knew from Demetrios’s explanations that he was one of the old guard, his loyalty to the late Lord Konstantinos absolute. He served Iohannes out of duty, not affection. He was seen as an honourable third party, and his corroboration lent a heavy, almost insurmountable weight to Iohannes’s claim.
Georgios’s suspicion curdled into open contempt. “So, the day after our father dies, his will vanishes from his locked study, and you expect me to believe it is a coincidence?”
Theodorus’s gaze found Demetrios’s. He gave a subtle, sharp nod, an entire strategy conveyed in a single gesture.
“Yes, I do. And in the absence of any written will, the Princedom laws follow that the eldest son inherits the entirety of the estates and all lands and titles associated.” Georgius stepped forward, likely about to intervene, but it was Demetrios who spoke up.
“My Lord, if I may.”
Iohannes fixed his cold stare on the old servant, but gave a curt nod. To publicly silence the man who had served his house for decades would be a poor first act, and he held some respect still for the old servant who had helped raise him.
“Demetrios. Speak.”
“I have here, my Lord.” The old servant’s hand, though trembling slightly, was steady as he produced a folded vellum document from within his tunic. “The last will and testament of our Lord Konstantinos.”
A wave of whispers rippled through the mourners. Iohannes’s expression, already severe, hardened into something glacial. “Is that so? And why, pray tell, did you not see fit to mention this yesterday when I asked you directly if you knew of such a document?”
“The late Lord’s command, my Lord,” Demetrios lied, his voice unwavering. “He was most insistent that it be unveiled only after the funeral rites were complete.”
“Was he now?” Iohannes’s words were silk draped over steel. “And he wished it to be made public in such a…theatrical manner? I find that curious.” His eyes narrowed. This was a deliberate move. But by whom? The brute Georgios lacked the subtlety. He briefly considered his other fop of a brother, but dismissed the thought; Theodorus would never have the nerve.
But then why would Demetrios act alone?
“I had meant to deliver it to you privately, in truth, my Lord. But I feared delaying the delivery hearing you speak of the inheritance and the missing will to all present.” Demetrios’s gaze intentionally fell upon Georgios, subtly signaling the latter’s intention to intervene. It was a masterful misdirection, Theodorus had to say. He was framing the public unveiling of the will as a way to impede any disruptions Georgios might have planned for the proceedings, thereby avoiding the brunt of Iohannes’s wrath.
He held out the document. With every eye upon him, Iohannes had no choice. He snatched the parchment and broke the dark wax seal. As his eyes scanned the script, the colour drained from his face, his hand beginning to shake.
“This…can’t be.”
Seeing his brother’s shocked expression, Georgios stomped over and unceremoniously tore the parchment from his brother’s limp grasp. Iohannes, lost in shock, let it happen. Georgios’s eyes devoured the text, and a great, booming laugh erupted from his chest - a roar of pure, unadulterated triumph. Confused whispers and conversations erupted within the crowd. What was in the document that led to such reactions from the two brothers? Georgios thrust the document roughly at the seneschal.
“Read,” he commanded Sir Spiros. “Read it for all to hear.”
Sir Spiros took the missive and, in a gruff voice that grew increasingly disbelieving, began to read aloud.
“I, Konstantinos of the house of Sideris, in the full light of God and with a mind unburdened by fever or sorrow, do hereby set down my final decree. Let no man question this testament, for it is written from a father’s heart.
To my eldest son, Iohannes, who possesses a mind for stewardship and a firm hand for leadership, I grant the heart of our lands. To you, I leave the main estate, with its manor house, its ledgers, and its bountiful vineyards that have been our family’s pride since coming to this land. May you govern it with the wisdom and justice I know you possess.
To my second son, Georgius Siderius, the sword of our house, whose courage burns as brightly as any flame, I grant the domain of a warrior. To you, I leave the fertile western hills and the great Sideris flocks of sheep that graze upon them. May you stand as a vigilant guardian on that border and bring honor to our name.
And to my youngest, Theodorus, whose heart is gentle and whose soul finds solace not in swords but in verse, I grant a place of peace. To you, I leave the northern frontier plot, wild and rugged though it may be. It is the smallest of parcels, but it is my hope that its wildness might keep the world at bay, and that among its pastures you might find the quiet to fill a thousand books with your words.”
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Silence. The crowd was utterly speechless. Georgios looked ecstatic. Iohannes was a statue of fury, his helplessness settling deep in his eyes into a cold, hard hatred that promised a reckoning. Theodorus maintained a mask of shock, as if he were caught completely off guard.
The congregation erupted in multiple hushed, frantic conversations among the bystanders. The will had not settled the matter; it had just ignited a war.
By the time Theodorus found Demetrios, the evening meal was in full swing and the day’s light was failing. The great hall was filled with the low murmur of conversations and the clatter of wooden plates, but a pocket of silence surrounded the old servant, who sat hunched in a corner, dining alone. The household was clearly waiting to see which way the wind would blow now that Demetrios had been marked by Iohannes. The earthquake the old servant had unleashed at the funeral had inevitably made him the prime target of the eldest Sideris’s ire.
Theodorus crossed the hall, retrieved a plate of bread and stew, and deliberately sat down opposite him. The surrounding whispers faltered.
“My lord, you should not be here,” Demetrios breathed, his eyes wide with alarm. He hadn’t touched his food. “It is not safe for us to be seen together.”
“And why is that?” Theodorus asked, his tone nonchalant as he broke his bread.
“Lord Iohannes released me from his study not an hour ago,” the old man recounted, his voice trembling with the memory. “He was… a storm. He questioned me for hours. He accused me of conspiracy. He took the will and compared its every letter to your father’s old correspondence, hunting for a forger’s slip. He even suggested Lord Konstantinos was feverish or mad when he wrote it.”
“But he found nothing.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Nothing,” Demetrios confirmed. “Sir Spiros and the others would not allow your father’s honor to be questioned so.” In the end, Iohannes could not risk alienating his allies. He was not a charismatic leader; his people were bound to him by duty and honour. “With the will now public knowledge, he was forced to accept it. But he let me go with a threat in his eyes. He has his people watching me. He will know we have met.”
“Exactly,” Theodorus said, unperturbed. “I’m counting on it.”
The old man’s composure finally cracked. Had he judged the boy wrong? Was the transformation he witnessed under the hazelnut tree not one of strength, but of reckless folly? “Counting on it?” he pleaded, his voice dropping. “This is foolhardy, Young Master.” The title was a subtle barb. He was no longer Lord Theodorus, but the naive Young Master.
“No, Demetrios. It is necessary.” Theodorus injected a bit of iron into his voice. “People see me as a footnote. An afterthought. It is time to change that. Let them associate me with the will’s revelation. Let them wonder. Let them doubt.”
“It won’t be just the servants who wonder, Lord. Your brothers will see it as a provocation. Iohannes will not take kindly to it.”
“Good.” A predatory grin touched Theodorus’s lips, a chilling expression the old servant had never seen on that face. “It will give me leverage.”
“Leverage? For what purpose, my Lord?”
Theodorus’s smile softened slightly. “Tell me, Demetrios, what do you remember of the capital?”
The sudden change of subject threw the old servant completely off balance. “The capital, my Lord?”
“Yes. The life my father led before he was exiled here. The life he left behind.” He asked as he stabbed his plate of grilled mutton and olives, the latter evading his cutlery with suprising agility.
Demetrios looked flumoxed, his anxious energy carrying to his words. “Why do you wish to know such things? Right now Lord Iohannes-”
“My father is dead, Demetrios.” Theodorus interrupted him gently, a sad smile touching his face. “That should be reason enough.”
The weight of the simple truth silenced the old man’s protest. “I… of course, my Lord. Forgive my impertinence.” His shoulders drooped in a heavy sadness, the topic rendering any thoughts of Iohannes or the inheritance inconsequential.
“I know you only worry for me, Demetrios,” Theodorus said, a quiet acknowledgment of the servant’s loyalty. He let a moment pass. “From what you have told me, I know my father served in the military. But what, precisely, did he do?”
“He was more than a soldier,” Demetrios began, his voice taking on a distant, reminiscent tone as he stared into the flickering candlelight. “He was a captain of the Royal Guard in Mangup, answering directly to the Megas Doux himself.”
“A captain?” Theodorus murmured, leaning forward. “He never spoke of it.”
“He was… a different man then. Younger.” A faint smile touched the old man’s lips. “Not a great strategist, perhaps, but his men loved him. He was kind, and a terror in a fight. A bull. His family was a minor branch of the main Sideris House situated in the Morean peninsula. They fled the Ottomans, but his own father died not long after reaching the Principality. Your father had to work to support his mother. A refugee in the great city, but he found his way.”
“How did a refugee rise so high?”
“Valor,” Demetrios said simply. “During the skirmishes with the Genoese near Kalamita, he distinguished himself through pure courage. He was granted these frontier estates as a reward. He was a rising star. He made friends for life then, too - stubborn Christos, flamboyant Vasileios… many grand adventures, but those are stories for another time.”
“He was a hero of the Principality, then,” Theodorus mused. “What happened?”
Demetrios’s smile faded. He lowered his gaze to his gnarled hands, resting on the table. “A woman,” he said softly. “One day, a nomad wandered onto these very lands. Starving, desperate, fleeing persecution. An escaped Tatar slave. Her name was Alsu. You would have known her as Anna. Iohannes’s mother.”
Theodorus froze, the pieces falling into place. The reason for the household's division became starkly clear. Of course the men-at-arms, their hearts still raw from Tatar raids, flocked to the banner of the vengeful, pure-blooded Georgios. To them, Iohannes’s caution was not strategy; it was the suspect blood of the enemy.
“Your father abhorred slavery,” Demetrios continued, his voice heavy with the weight of the memory. “He took her into his household. But the Principality paid tribute to the Golden Horde then, and they… they viewed the harboring of an escaped slave as an insult. They demanded her back.”
“And my father refused.” It wasn’t a question.
“He had come to know her. To care for her. To stop any attempt at her return, he married her. Prince Olubei was furious at the political fallout. He stripped your father of his rank, his titles, everything. His career was over. He was ordered to remain here, on the frontier estates he had won with his own blood. All but exiled...”
The night was lost away in the nostalgic stories of Lord Konstantinos's time in the capital, Theodorus once again utilizing his strategy of guiding the conversation to extract practical executable information on the capital. For the second time in just as many days, Theodorus took advantage of Demetrios, but he hardened his heart. The servant would never have to know.
A long silence settled over the table. The noise of the hall seemed a world away. Demetrios finally looked up, a weary, sad kindness in his eyes. “These are just old stories. Forgive an old man’s ramblings, my Lord. But… it felt good to remember him so.”
“Thank you, Demetrios,” Theodorus said, his voice quiet. “You have given me back a piece of him I never knew. Now, memories are all I have left.”
The old servant reached across the table and patted Theodorus’s arm affectionately. “Good night, my Lord.”
Theodorus offered a genuine, grateful smile in return. “Good night, Demetrios. Sleep well. I will see you on the morrow.”
Master and servant went their separate ways. The last vestiges of twilight had given way to the encroaching darkness by the time Theodorus arrived at his destination. Two torches, jammed into iron sconces, flanked the heavy wooden door to Iohannes’s private study. They spat and hissed, casting long, contorted shadows that writhed on the stone floor like tormented spirits. The two guards standing sentinel were half-swallowed by the gloom, their faces obscured, their armored shoulders making them seem more like forbidding statues than men.
It was the left figure that spoke, his voice a gravelly baritone. “Young Master Theodorus. What is your business here at this hour?” The tone was not friendly; no doubt word had already reached Iohannes of Theodorus’s long and friendly dinner chat with Demetrios.
“I wish to see my brother,” Theodorus stated simply.
“At this hour? What business could it be?” It was the same guard who spoke, while his larger companion on the right took a single, menacing step forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
“It is a matter of great importance,” Theodorus said, his voice clear and untroubled by the cheap intimidation. “A private matter. One I believe he will be very interested in hearing.”
The guards shared a look, a flicker of uncertainty passing between them. The Theodorus they knew would have stammered an apology and fled. This calm, unreadable boy was someone new. The left one, whom Theodorus mentally nicknamed ‘Grim’, gave a curt gesture to his companion ‘Grunt’, who, fittingly, grunted his assessment. Grim knocked once on the door and disappeared inside, leaving Theodorus to endure Grunt’s unwavering, hostile stare. Through a crack in the door’s frame, a sliver of candlelight confirmed that Iohannes was still awake despite the hour.
A full minute passed before Grim returned. “You will be searched for weapons.”
Theodorus nodded, a flicker of satisfaction running through him. The demand was a confirmation of Iohannes’s frayed state - a paranoid man is a vulnerable one.
The room was stuffy, thick with the scent of beeswax and the faint, sour aroma of old wine. A lone candle on a small desk fought against the shadows, illuminating a scene of controlled chaos. Stacks of ledgers and documents were distributed haphazardly, some pages crumpled from being clenched in a fist, and a goblet lay overturned in a small, dark pool of its own contents. Iohannes sat amidst it all, a king besieged in his own fortress.
“Theodorus.” The candlelight carved deep shadows under his eyes, making him look haggard and worn. But his gaze was as sharp and cold as a shard of glass. “You wished to see me?”
“Yes, I did, Brother.” Theodorus felt his heart begin to hammer against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of his own making, but he let none of it show on his face. This was it. His first move in this terrible and deadly game. One that would shatter the entire board.
“Why?” Iohannes’s voice was a blade in the quiet room.
After this, there was no turning back.
“I want to sell you my estate.
All of it.
”