A sharp, piercing noise —like metal scraping stone— shattered the quiet void of my mind, yanking me from the depths of sleep. Pain throbbed behind my eyes—dull yet persistent—as if someone had driven nails into my skull. I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut and pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead, desperate to push the ache away. My heart pounded, a steady drumbeat of warning. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  The air felt cold and strangely thick against my skin, sending a shiver crawling up my spine. Where was the gentle hum of the air conditioner? The soft scent of last night's chamomile tea lingering on the nightstand? My bed felt too firm, and the coarse sheets rasped against my arms like sandpaper. Slowly, I forced my eyes open.

  Overhead, dark wooden beams ran across the ceiling, polished and gleaming—not the smooth plaster of my bedroom.

  A faint musk hung in the air, a mix of old wood and lingering smoke. The walls seemed to exhale cool dampness against my skin, carrying the echo of distant footsteps through their ancient stones. Somewhere, the subtle smell of burning oil drifted in, hinting at a brazier or torch left smoldering nearby. My breath caught in my throat—this was no mere set dressing from a themed hotel. Everything felt alive and daunting, as if the room itself had secrets to guard. A spike of panic shot through my chest; I braced a hand against the mattress to steady myself. My muscles protested in an unfamiliar way, as though they weren't quite my own.

  These weren't my hands.

  I remembered my hands—slightly wrinkled, the skin soft from years spent turning pages rather than wielding weapons. There was a small scar on my left index finger from when Jason and I had tried to build a treehouse. We'd laughed so hard when the plank slipped, and I'd nicked myself with the saw. The memory brought a pang of longing. What would my sons, Jason and Nick, think if they saw me now?

  My breath turned ragged as I noticed my chest, flat and firmly muscled. Alarm hammered in my ribs, refusing to let me dismiss what I was seeing. I slid my legs over the edge of the bed and nearly stumbled on a thick, ornate rug that covered the cold, stone floor. A sudden voice, gentle but insistent, broke through the haze:.

  A voice behind me, soft and gentle, pierced the panic. "Does something trouble you, my Despot?"

  I froze. My pulse stuttered. Despot. The word was Greek—my Yaya’s tongue—but I understood it with an eerie clarity, as though I'd been born speaking it. It tasted foreign and familiar at once. The woman who spoke lay behind me, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her features serene yet watchful. The way her eyes searched mine hinted at an intimacy I didn’t share.

  She knew me. But I didn't know her. I could barely breathe as I tried to form a response. The word Despot echoed like a bell tolling in my ears—final, inescapable.

  I stared at her, my chest tightening. Who was she? More importantly—who was I?

  Suddenly, a chorus of shouts rang in my mind; the clang of blades collided with the ragged breathing of men locked in battle. For an instant, I tasted iron on my tongue—blood, sweat, or both, I couldn’t tell. My vision blurred with images of towering city walls, banners whipping above them, and I felt a crushing weight of duty settle on my chest. I gasped, clutching my head, the echo of that other life pounding through my skull like war drums.

  "No..." The whispered word slipped out as I clutched my skull, my fingertips digging into my scalp. "This can't be real."

  But as my gaze fell on these youthful, scarred hands, I knew. The resonance of muscle memory—of a soldier—hummed under my skin. This body had known a life of war, but it wasn’t mine. My stomach twisted, and I sank onto a nearby stool, pressing my back against the cold stone wall. The heaviness of the room, the distant smoke of a brazier—everything was heartbreakingly real.

  Who am I? The question pounded in my mind. I tried to speak again, to demand answers from the woman, but the unfamiliar baritone that escaped my lips startled me:

  "I... I'm fine," I managed, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me.

  She softened, relief and concern flickering across her face. "You’ve been restless in your sleep," she murmured. Her voice was as soothing as warm honey, yet it only heightened my unease.

  Restless. The word barely covered it. Fragments of memory still spun like wild leaves in a storm. Images of Constantinople’s colossal walls and endless midnight councils with weary generals—moments so clear they hurt. A crown of heavy gold, pressing into my brow.

  Constantine.

  The name thundered in my skull. Constantine Palaiologos, the last emperor of Byzantium. I felt cold all over. I was Michael Jameston, a fifty-five-year-old American who sold books. But the calluses on my palms, the iron weight in my shoulders—all these sensations were screaming otherwise.

  I steadied myself against the wall and forced a long, shuddering breath in and out. How? Why? Constantine’s life poured into me, unbidden. The more I fought it, the more insistent it became. The woman watched me with quiet concern. Theodora. My mind fumbled for the name that hovered in the newly stirred memories.

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  “Are you certain you’re well?” she asked, stepping closer. Her gown whispered against the stone floor, and I realized I was staring.I forced myself to meet her gaze, seeing the genuine worry etched in her eyes. "I'm just... overwhelmed," I managed to say, the words foreign yet somehow fitting.

  She offered a gentle smile. "You've taken on so much lately. The responsibilities here in the Morea, the matters with your brothers. It's no wonder you're feeling the weight of it all."

  I nodded slowly, seizing on her words. "Yes, that's it. Just... the weight of everything."

  Her hand rested lightly on my arm, a comforting gesture that only deepened the surreal nature of the moment. "Perhaps some fresh air would help clear your mind," she suggested. "Or a ride through the countryside?"

  “Maybe later,” I managed, hoping my voice sounded steadier than I felt. “I... need a moment.”

  She squeezed my arm, then stepped away. “Of course. I’ll have breakfast brought up.”

  When she slipped out the door, I exhaled a ragged breath. My hands shook as I ran them through my hair—thicker, coarser than my own had ever been. Was I trapped in a dream? A hallucination? Yet the weight of the stone floor beneath my feet felt too raw to ignore.

  I tried to recall the last thing I remembered as Michael Jameston. Closing up the bookstore late at night, the scent of paper and ink lingering in the air. The sound of rain tapping against the windows. I had felt a sharp pain—a headache unlike any I'd experienced before—and then... darkness.

  And now, I was here.

  I stood and moved toward the window, pushing aside the heavy drapes. The view that greeted me stole the breath from my lungs. Rolling hills stretched toward the horizon, dotted with olive groves and vineyards. In the distance, the sun cast a golden glow over the rugged mountains. It was breathtaking—and entirely unlike anything I'd ever seen.

  This was real.

  I reached up to touch my face, feeling the stubble of a beard along my jaw. Turning, I caught sight of a polished metal mirror resting on a nearby table. Hesitant, I approached it.

  The face that stared back was not my own. Dark hair framed a strong, angular face, with piercing eyes that held a depth I didn't recognize. A face young but hardened by years of responsibility and conflict.

  I was Constantine.

  A mix of fear and awe coursed through me. If this was real—if I indeed was in his body—then what did that mean? For me? For history?

  I knew what was coming. The fall of Constantinople. The end of the Byzantine Empire. And here I was, inhabiting the body of the man who would be its last emperor.

  Could I change it? Was I meant to?

  A knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts. "Enter," I called out, the deep timbre of my voice still unsettling.

  A young servant stepped inside, carrying a tray with bread, cheese, and fruit. "Your breakfast, Despot," he said with a bow.

  "Thank you," I replied, watching as he set the tray on the table. As he turned to leave, I stopped him. "Wait."

  He paused, glancing up at me with a mix of curiosity and caution.

  "What is your name?" I asked.

  "Alexios, Despot."

  "How long have you served here, Alexios?"

  "All my life, Despot. My father was a steward before me."

  I nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, Alexios. That will be all."

  He bowed again before quietly exiting the room.

  I sank into a chair by the table, staring at the simple meal before me. My mind raced with possibilities, questions, and fears. If I had this knowledge—if I knew what was to come—could I use it to change the course of history? To save the empire? Or would my interference only make things worse?

  But another fear was gnawing at the edges of my thoughts: Could I ever go back? Was this some kind of nightmare I would wake from, or had I been pulled permanently into this world? Am I trapped here? The uncertainty clawed at me, making it hard to breathe.

  Another thought loomed, chilling my blood: Could I ever go back? Had I been thrust into this world forever? A claustrophobic certainty clung to me, making it hard to breathe.

  It felt like a tempest inside my head—part Michael Jameston, part Constantine Palaiologos. And neither half had answers.

  The historical setting: Morea, Early 1428

  In the early months of 1428, the fractured lands of Greece lay contested between ambitious powers, each vying for supremacy in a region rich in legacy and strategic importance.

  The Byzantine Empire, although reduced dramatically from its former glory, maintained a resilient foothold in the Peloponnese (Morea), under the leadership of Emperor John VIII Palaiologos and his brothers. Determined to consolidate Byzantine power, John VIII launched an aggressive campaign against Carlo Tocco, the ruler of the Tocco Domains, whose territories included key strategic points like Glarentza and islands such as Zakynthos.

  In a decisive clash at the Battle of the Echinades, the Byzantine fleet shattered Count Tocco's forces, effectively ending his influence within Morea. The triumph facilitated a pivotal political arrangement: a negotiated settlement culminating in the marriage of John VIII's brother, Constantine Palaiologos, to Carlo Tocco's niece. As part of her substantial dowry, Constantine acquired the vital port town of Glarentza and surrounding Tocco-controlled territories in western Morea, reinforcing Byzantine presence in the region.

  At this juncture, the governance of Morea was skillfully divided among the Palaiologos brothers, each playing a critical role. Constantine Palaiologos oversaw the newly gained territories, focusing on stabilizing and fortifying his holdings against external threats. Theodore Palaiologos administered Mystras, the main town of Byzanttines in the Morea, and the regions of Messinia, Laconia, and parts of Arcadia, preserving Byzantine traditions and maintaining internal security. In the northern reaches of the Morea, their youngest brother Thomas Palaiologos managed Kalavryta, providing strategic depth and support to his siblings' territories.

  Yet Morea was anything but secure. On its fringes, the powerful maritime Republic of Venice retained strategic fortresses like Modon, Coron, Nauplio, and Negroponte, maintaining a delicate tension between trade, diplomacy, and military presence. To the north, the encroaching Ottoman Empire continued its relentless expansion, regularly dispatching raids into Byzantine territories, threatening the delicate equilibrium.

  Meanwhile, smaller states persisted in this precarious landscape. The Duchy of Athens, governed by the Florentine Acciaiuoli family, controlled areas surrounding Athens and Thebes, cautiously navigating between Ottoman ambitions and Venetian dominance. The Duchy of Naxos, ruled by Venetian families, retained vital island territories in the Aegean, while the fragmented Duchy of Achaia clung desperately to limited holdings like Chalandritsa and Kyparissia.

  Thus, in early 1428, the stage was set—a mosaic of alliances and rivalries, ambition and survival, with the Palaiologos brothers standing resolutely amidst these turbulent tides, striving to revive the legacy of the Roman Empire and reclaim their ancestral prominence.