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The morning sun bathed the barracks courtyard in warm light, reflecting off the polished pikes and rows of armor neatly arranged for inspection. The rhythmic sound of boots on packed dirt echoed as soldiers marched in formation, their drills methodical, their movements sharp.

Constantine entered the courtyard flanked by George Sphrantzes, his trusted confidant, and a small retinue of guards. The air carried the acrid tang of freshly fired gunpowder mingled with the metallic scent of steel. Waiting for him were Captain Andreas, commander of the standing army, and the chief craftsmen—Elias, the renowned bellmaker turned weapons expert, and Niketas, the gunpowder artisan and defector.

Andreas stepped forward, his military demeanor softened by a slight smile. "My Despot," he said, bowing. "The men are eager to showcase their progress. We've achieved much since your last inspection."

Constantine's gaze swept the courtyard. "Show me."

Andreas led them to a training field where pike infantry drilled in tight formations. "We now have two units of 600 seasoned pike infantry each, trained and battle-tested. In addition, a unit of 600 newer recruits is progressing well. They may lack experience, but their enthusiasm and discipline are promising."

Constantine nodded, watching as the soldiers executed a coordinated advance, their pikes forming a near-impenetrable wall. They moved precisely, but he couldn't ignore the youth on many of their faces. These recruits might stand firm against the pikes today, but would they hold against the Ottoman onslaught? War demanded sacrifice, and the youngest always bore its cost first.

"And the Pyrvelos?" Constantine asked, turning to Elias.

Elias stepped forward, his hands calloused from years of labor, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "We currently have 140 Pyrvelos in service, my Despot. With the new craftsmen we've trained, production has nearly doubled. We can now produce up to 150 annually if resources hold steady." He glanced briefly at the rows of weapons. "It is satisfying work, my Despot, to see what once seemed impossible become routine."

"Good," Constantine replied. "But for now, I want you to prioritize Pyrvelos production over cannons. While cannons are invaluable, the Pyrvelos will prove more versatile in the field. They are lighter, easier to deploy, and can strike fear into Ottoman cavalry. Mobility will be key if we're forced into a prolonged campaign."

Elias inclined his head. "As you command, my Despot. The newer designs are more stable, and our methods have improved. They'll be ready for whatever comes."

Turning to Niketas, Constantine gestured to the storage buildings in the distance. "And what of our gunpowder supply?"

Niketas, a wiry man with sharp eyes, spoke with measured confidence, though his voice held a faint edge of caution. "We have a substantial stockpile, my Despot. Enough to arm the current forces and sustain us through a prolonged campaign. However, I would also recommend establishing a permanent production site at the Hexamilion Wall. Transporting gunpowder is always a risk—one spark, and…" He hesitated before continuing. "Better to minimize that risk, if we can."

Constantine's brow furrowed in thought. "A sound idea. With proper facilities, we could produce and store powder closer to the front lines, reducing delays during wartime. Begin drafting plans for such a facility. We'll ensure Hexamilion is not only a bastion of defense but also a supply hub."

Andreas gestured toward the artillery lined up at the far end of the courtyard. "We now have twelve field cannons ready for deployment, with several more to be sent to Hexamilion. Additionally, equipment is prepared to arm another 1,500 conscripted pike infantry if needed."

Constantine considered this for a moment before speaking.

"That's good to hear, Andreas; however, I want you to recruit an additional 1,000 men to join the standing army. We'll need the numbers if Hexamilion becomes the focus of Ottoman aggression." He paused, his tone growing more resolute. "If we falter, the walls will fall, and the Morea will burn."

Andreas saluted, his voice firm. "It will be done, my Despot."

Constantine surveyed the bustling barracks one last time, his thoughts lingering on the soldiers drilling with pikes in the distance. "We have made progress, but there is no room for complacency. Ensure everything is in place. The time to act may come sooner than we think."

Their strength was growing, but would it be enough? If Murad unleashed the full weight of his armies, this courtyard—these men—might one day stand as the last line between the empire and oblivion.

The private meeting room within the barracks was sparse but functional, a heavy oak table dominating its center. Constantine, George, and Andreas gathered around it, maps and reports spread out before them. The hum of activity from the courtyard beyond the stone walls served as a reminder of the stakes at hand. After concluding the main meeting with his advisors, Constantine had called George and Andreas to a smaller adjoining room to continue their discussion in private, away from the din of the barracks.

Constantine leaned over the map of the Morea, his finger tracing the coastline. "As expected, Murad seems unlikely to move this year, so there's no time to delay. It is time to finalize our plans for the capture of Zakynthos and then proceed with the journey to Rome."

George nodded. "The Kyrenia and the modified trade ship are ready, along with three transport vessels. We'll leave a garrison of 100 troops on Zakynthos to secure the island. As our reports suggest, they will be enough to conquer the island and enforce our rule."

Constantine's expression brightened, clearly pleased. "Good. Once the island is under control, we can recruit additional troops from the local population to bolster our forces. Make sure to bring a couple of Greek Bibles as gifts for the local priests. A gesture of goodwill will solidify their support and help ensure the people welcome our rule."

His gaze shifted to Andreas. "And news from Karytaina?"

Andreas shook his head. "The garrison is in firm control of the area. Two cannons have been installed in the castle as well. There's no sign of movement from Theodore. He's likely still licking his wounds after the failed siege of Mystras. But a cornered wolf is still dangerous, my Despot. If he sees an opportunity, he may strike."

"True," Constantine replied, his voice cool. "We will remain vigilant, but for now, Theodore is no immediate threat."

George pointed to the Hexamilion Wall marked on the map. "Reports from Hexamilion are promising. Thomas has made basic restorations to the walls—reinforced stonework, trenches, and positions for the cannons. The men are fatigued, but their progress is steady. It's far from complete, but it's substantial progress. However, Thomas has requested an additional 4,000 gold ducats to continue the works."

Constantine's expression stiffened, his tone edged with disbelief. "Another 4,000? Does he think we are minting gold in Glarentza?" He paused, then let out a measured sigh. "Still, the works are of utmost priority. The wall must hold. Arrange it with Petros and ensure the funds are dispatched immediately. We cannot afford any delays."

He continued, "We'll need to march there early next year. The Hexamilion must be fortified to its full strength if it is to hold against Murad's armies."

George leaned back in his chair. "Do you think the Pope will provide support for such efforts? Rome may sympathize with our cause, but how far will they go to aid us?"

Constantine's tone was resolute. "That is what I intend to determine. If we can secure support—be it financial, military, or diplomatic—it will strengthen our position against both the Ottomans and internal dissent."

George nodded, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. "I'm curious to see what can be achieved with the Pope regarding the book trade deal." He paused before adding, "And Zakynthos is an important goal as well. Securing the island will demonstrate to the Pope that we are stabilizing the region ourselves. Its harbors could serve as a base for future campaigns—or a lifeline for supplies if the mainland falters. Not to mention, the Zakynthos currant trade could be a valuable addition to our income."

Constantine paused, his gaze sweeping over his advisors. "We are preparing for a pivotal mission indeed. Ensure everything is in place. Zakynthos will be our first step, but it will not be our last."

The midday sun blazed high overhead, bathing the barracks yard in a harsh light that stretched long shadows across the beaten earth. The yard buzzed with activity as recruits drilled with pikes under the watchful eyes of their instructors. The sharp bark of commands mixed with the rhythmic clatter of weapons striking practice dummies. A faint breeze carried the scent of sweat, dust, and the faint tang of gunpowder lingering from the morning's musket training.

Marcus sat on a weathered bench near the armory, letting out a slow breath as he wiped the sweat from his brow. His arms ached with the kind of fatigue that came from relentless drills, but it was a good ache, a sign of progress. Leaning back slightly, he glanced toward the training field, watching the recruits struggle to keep their pike formations tight.

He smiled faintly. That had been me not long ago.

For months, he'd been just another pike infantryman, enduring the grueling training that demanded both strength and discipline. He could still feel the weight of the pike in his hands, the hours spent mastering its use, and the endless shouts of the drillmasters demanding tighter ranks and faster responses. But fate—or perhaps determination—had lifted him from the ranks of the pike.

He glanced down at the Pyrvelos musket resting across his lap, its polished barrel glinting in the sunlight. It felt right in his hands. The musket's mechanics had fascinated him from the start—the precision of the flint, the raw power unleashed with each shot. He ran his thumb along the mechanism, double-checking its placement.

The Pyrvelos had changed his life.

It was a weapon that demanded patience, precision, and care, but it rewarded those who mastered it with unparalleled impact on the battlefield. He still remembered the first time he'd fired it. The deafening crack, the recoil in his shoulder, and the plume of smoke—it had been exhilarating. He'd found his place, not just as a soldier, but as a Pyrvelos marksman, a symbol of the new age of warfare Constantine was ushering in.

Constantine.

Marcus's gaze drifted to the stone walls of the barracks. The Despot's name alone inspired respect. Under Constantine's leadership, they'd built an army that was more than just numbers. It was disciplined, innovative, and loyal.

He had seen that loyalty tested during the battle against Turahan Bey.

The memory surged back unbidden, vivid and sharp. The thunder of cannons echoed in his ears, and the acrid sting of gunpowder seemed to fill his nose. He could see the Ottoman cavalry charging in perfect formation, their banners snapping in the wind. For a moment, he'd felt a flicker of doubt. How could they stop such a force?

And then the Pyrvelos muskets had spoken.

Rows of marksmen had fired in unison, their shots tearing through the cavalry ranks. The riders fell, one after another, their horses rearing and buckling. Beside them, the Drakos cannons roared, sending plumes of fire and destruction into the advancing enemy.

They had turned the tide that day.

Marcus's grip on the musket tightened as pride swelled in his chest. That victory had been more than just a battle won—it had been a statement. The Ottomans could be defeated, their vaunted cavalry stopped.

Yet, he knew the victory was fragile.

Turahan Bey's defeat had rippled across the Ottoman ranks, but it had also stoked their wrath. Marcus had overheard the officers speaking of Sultan Murad's vow to return with an even larger force next spring. The threat loomed over them like a gathering storm, and every man in the barracks knew it.

But it wasn't just the Ottomans who threatened the Morea.

Marcus's jaw clenched as he thought of Theodore. The Despot's own brother had turned against him, choosing defiance and division over unity. The siege of Mystras had been a bitter experience, one that had left a scar on the men who had marched there, only to retreat when the walls held firm. Theodore's treachery festered like an open wound, and Marcus knew that until it was resolved, their strength would be divided.

He shifted on the bench, exhaling slowly. The road ahead would be long and full of challenges. But Marcus wasn't afraid.

He glanced down at the Pyrvelos in his hands, running his fingers over the polished wood and metal. This was his weapon, his purpose. He was no longer just a recruit fumbling with a pike. He was a Pyrvelos marksman—a warrior of the new age, wielding thunder in his hands.

He would stand beside Constantine.

When the Ottomans returned, when Theodore made his move, and when the storm finally broke over the Morea, Marcus would be ready. He would fight for the dream Constantine had sparked in all of them—a dream of an empire that would rise again, stronger and unbroken.

Marcus straightened, hefting the musket to his shoulder as he rose from the bench. The drills would resume soon, and he intended to be ready. There was no time for hesitation.

Not now. Not ever.

"Marcus!"

A voice cut through his thoughts, and he turned to see Isidore striding toward him, his expression serious.

"The Despot requests your presence," Isidore announced, his tone clipped. "At the armory. Now."

Marcus felt a jolt of anticipation. Why would Despot Constantine summon him? Had he done something wrong?

He pushed the speculation aside, knowing that dwelling on possibilities would only increase his anxiety. "Yes, Sergeant," he replied, his voice firm. He followed Isidore across the bustling barracks yard, the sound of their boots crunching on gravel a steady counterpoint to the clang of hammers and the shouts of the drill instructors.

The armory was a large, dimly lit building, its walls lined with racks of weapons, the air thick with the smell of oil and metal. As they entered, Marcus saw Constantine standing near a table, his broad shoulders hunched over a collection of Pyrvelos muskets, carefully examining each one. George Sphrantzes stood beside him, his keen eyes scanning the weapons with a thoughtful expression.

Constantine looked up as they approached, a flicker of recognition in his dark eyes. "Marcus," he greeted him, his voice surprisingly warm. "Come closer."

Marcus stepped forward, his pulse quickening. He'd only spoken to Constantine a handful of times, mostly during brief inspections or after battles. The Despot's presence was always commanding, his gaze intense, his bearing that of a born leader.

"I've been hearing good things about you," Constantine said, his eyes locking onto Marcus's. "Your skill with the Pyrvelos is well known, and your bravery in battle has not gone unnoticed. They say you're a marksman others aspire to emulate."

Marcus felt a flush of pride but kept his expression neutral, his eyes fixed on Constantine. "I try to serve well, Despot," he replied.

Constantine nodded, picking up one of the muskets and turning it over in his hands. "The Pyrvelos is more than a weapon," he said, his voice low and intense. "It represents our defiance and our resolve. Every shot fired is a reminder that innovation and discipline can overcome even the mightiest of foes."

He paused, then gestured to the table. "These are the latest models, crafted with improved design and durability. The barrels are longer, giving greater accuracy, and the mechanisms are refined for smoother operation. I want you to test them. Tell me if they meet the standard expected of a Pyrvelos marksman."

Marcus's heart skipped a beat. To be singled out for such a task by the Despot himself was an honor he hadn't dared imagine. He stepped closer to the table, his eyes scanning the muskets. Picking one up, he tested its weight, balanced it against his shoulder, and examined the finer details of its craftsmanship.

The changes were subtle but meaningful—the longer barrel gave it an edge in range, and the sturdier stock felt more stable in his hands. As he worked the mechanism, he noted how fluidly it operated, a testament to the artisans' growing expertise.

"These are exceptional, Despot," Marcus said after a moment. "The improvements are clear. The added accuracy and reliability will make a significant difference in battle."

Constantine's lips curved into a faint smile. "That's what I hoped to hear." He turned to George. "Ensure these are distributed to Sergeant Isidore's unit immediately. And see that Marcus receives one of these models. He'll set the example for others to follow."

George nodded. "It will be done, Despot."

Constantine turned back to Marcus, his gaze steady and full of purpose. "We face many challenges ahead. The Ottomans are regrouping, Theodore lurks in Mystras, and every day we march closer to confrontation. But with marksmen like you and weapons like these, we will prevail. Serve well, Marcus. Your courage inspires others."

He placed a hand on Marcus's shoulder, the gesture firm but reassuring.

Marcus straightened, his chest swelling with pride. "I will, Despot," he replied, his voice unwavering.

As Constantine and George departed, Marcus lingered near the table, his fingers brushing over the polished surface of the new musket. The weapon felt like a symbol of his journey, from an unsure recruit to a renowned Pyrvelos marksman.

The responsibility weighed on him, but it didn't daunt him. He was a Pyrvelos now, a soldier at the forefront of a new era.