Fallen Eagle

Chapter 3: Carved from Weakness

The air still vibrated with the charge of a world overturned. Theodoro knew this was a moment of pure potential, and to not seize it was sacrilege. The sentimentality of the original Theodorus was a luxury that could not be afforded, not when faced with the sheer scale of the task ahead. He would use everything and everyone at his disposal. That began with the kind, loyal servant who had witnessed the transformation.“Demetrios,” he began, his voice low and steady. “To honour my father’s memory, I will need your help. Can I count on you?”

Awestruck, Demetrios could only manage one answer. “Of course, Young Master. No…my Lord.” He bowed his head, his old knees nearly buckling as he knelt on the cold, stony ground, under the shade of the great hazelnut tree.

“Rise, Demetrios. Please.” Theodoro offered a hand, a deliberate gesture. A wise leader elevates his subjects; he doesn’t grind them down. As the old servant took his hand and rose, Theodorus felt the subtle shift of allegiance settle between them. “There is much to do, and I would value your counsel.” The authority in his voice was a stark contrast to the meek boy he’d replaced, but Theodorus felt it was in character with his new persona. He had sworn to become strong. Now he had to act it.

“Of course, my Lord.” A flicker of hope ignited in Demetrios’s eyes. He latched onto this new Theodorus, this sudden, impossible chance that the gentle third son could somehow protect his father’s legacy. It was a fool’s hope, perhaps, but it was the hope of an old hand who had nothing to lose following his master's passing.

“Tell me,” Theodorus said, picking up his breakfast plate, “what happens now that my father has passed?” He kept the question deliberately vague. His knowledge of this world was a patchwork of assumptions still; the more Demetrios volunteered, the fewer holes he would have to conceal.

Demetrios also began picking at his plate. “Now… the funeral, my Lord.” The old servant was still uncomfortable around the topic. “It will likely be tomorrow. The seneschal, the men-at-arms, the staff from all three estates… they will gather. Your father valued every soul in his service. He would want them all present and they will have received word by now.”

Theodorus logged the detail. His mind raced through what he knew of medieval inheritance. Primogeniture was the standard for high nobility by the 1400s, but for lesser landowners, variations in customs could still occur.

“Did my father leave anything in writing?” A written testament was harder to sabotage than a deathbed declaration.

“He did, my Lord.” Demetrios said, a touch of surprise colouring his voice.

“And its contents?” Theodorus pressed gently, briefly surprised at the vibrant taste of the authentic medieval cheese, compared to the processed ones of his era.

“I was not privy to the details, my Lord. Your father was… insistent… that it be read only after his passing.” A fractional hesitation. A slight flicker of the eyes. Demetrios was an adequate liar, and he was hiding something. Theodoro decided against a direct command; trust could not be built on threats.

He softened his tone, leaning in conspiratorially. “Demetrios, I don’t ask this for my own sake. I ask because our house is about to tear itself apart. You heard them at our father’s bedside. They nearly drew steel while he was breathing his last.” He let the shameful image hang in the air, a stain on the memory of the man to whom Demetrios was truly loyal. “I pray it ends in silent resentment, but I fear it ends in blood and fire. This,” he gestured to the hazelnut tree, having noticed how Demetrios also had a special attachment to it. “Everything he built could be turned to ash. Help me prevent that.”

It was the perfect lever. Inaction now made Demetrios complicit in the very destruction he feared.

The old man let out a long, defeated sigh. “...You are right, my Lord. I do fear what is to come. I fear it because the Lord decided to eschew tradition. He divided his lands among all three of you. Your brother, Iohannes, will not take it well.”

That seemed like an understatement. Iohannes likely expected a full transfer of all the estates. He’d said as much yesterday when confronting Georgios. He wouldn’t take this lying down. He might even take more drastic measures if necessary. Access to the will was suddenly paramount in Theodorus's mind.

“ Demetrios… the will. Where is it now? In my father’s study?” If so, it would be the worst-case scenario. Iohannes, as the current de facto head of the family, would have priviliged to Lord Konstantinos's study. And he wouldn’t put it past Iohannes to tamper with the written will if he thought it possible.heodorus saw it differently. He saw an opportunity.

“It is no matter,” Theodorus said, his calm surprising the old caretaker. “It is a greater kindness than I expected, Demetrios. In truth, I couldn’t have asked for more.” Seeing Theodorus's mature response, a flicker of pride touched Demetrios’s face.

“Of far more importance,” Theodorus said, leaning forward, “is what my brothers are up to. Demetrios, I will admit I spent my youth with my head in books of poetry, not household ledgers, but I am not a fool. My brothers did not take breakfast this morning. They are already moving, consolidating their power for what comes after the funeral. I need you to be my eyes and ears. Tell me, who will stand with Georgios? Who is loyal to Iohannes? And who will wait to see which way the wind blows? Speak candidly, I would value your judgement.”

A flicker of pride, sharp and bright, lit in the old man’s eyes. He was not just being asked for gossip; he was being consulted, his life’s quiet observations suddenly valued as a strategic asset.

“Lord Georgios,” Demetrios began without hesitation, “will have the swords. Every man-at-arms on this estate, led by their captain, Lycomedes. They are still bitter over the raid, and keen for the vengeance Georgios promises. Plus, he conducted himself with honour during the battle. He doesn’t command from the rear, my Lord. And the men respect that.”

Theodorus filed the name away. “And Iohannes?”

“Lord Iohannes has the keys,” Demetrios stated plainly. “He has been acting steward for the last three years. The seneschal Spiros, the reeves, the household clerks…they are his creatures. Lord Iohannes may be severe and uncharismatic, but he is meticulous, and he is fair. He understands their forms and their functions, and is keen to keep the status quo. They will cling to the man who guarantees their place.”

“So, one brother has the swords, the other has the administration,” Theodorus mused. “And the neutrals?”

“There are no neutrals, my Lord. Only those whose loyalty is for sale. The household staff, the farriers, the tenants…their allegiance belongs to whoever feeds and pays them. For now, that is Iohannes. They will bow to him, but they will not bleed for him.”

Over the next hour, Theodorus engrossed himself in deciphering the intricate map of his own home, laid bare for the first time by Lord Konstantinos’s cunning aide. He had just been handed the keys to the kingdom by the unlikeliest of suspects. The man was no simple servant; he was the keeper of secrets, an intricate webweaver in all but name.

“This changes everything, Demetrios. Thank you,” Theodoro said, placing a hand briefly on the old servant’s shoulder, a gesture of sincere gratitude. “You have given me much to consider. We cannot be seen together until the funeral, but we will speak more after it.”

Demetrios bowed low, his posture no longer just deferential, but imbued with a new, solemn purpose. “Be safe, my Lord. The walls of this house have ears, my Lord. Tread carefully.”

“You more than I,” Theodoro replied, his voice barely a whisper. “You are the one who must sleep among them.”

Theodorus excused himself and walked from the servant’s cramped quarters, his mind no longer a storm of worry, but a workshop of calculation. He made a point of parading himself in view of the staff during the rest of the day, aimlessly wandering the grounds, his expression one of somber grief. Let them think his mind was on his father’s soul, not on the intricate web of power he was about to dismantle.

The grand, daunting mission - to save a dying principality from the tides of history - was an ocean. He could not drink it all at once. He had to focus on the immediate battle, but with a focus on this huge, impossible goal.

The air was thick with a tension that threatened to snap, a frantic energy buzzing just beneath the surface of the evening’s quiet. Servants scurried past, their movements hurried, their quiet whispers echoing from dark corners. Warriors patrolled in pairs, their faces grim in the flickering torchlight, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. The main players were executing their opening gambits, and he remained an ignoble pawn, ignored by all.

He retired to his room early, his mind exhausted by the myriad possibilities he’d considered. He sat on the edge of his bed and did a final mental accounting, like a merchant reviewing the last details before a risky venture.

He’d considered every variable: Iohannes, with the full household administration, the income of the estates, and the power of patronage. Georgius, with the household guard, the loyalty of the fighting men, and a warrior’s reputation. The principality, a tiny speck on the map, weak and insignificant, clinging to obsolete traditions. The Crimeans, savage and ruthless, the Genoans, greedy and industrious. And the Ottomans, imperious and absolute.

Then him. An insignificant, bookish third son to a disgraced, dead frontier lord. An old, canny servant. A piece of faded parchment promising him a worthless plot of land. And an unbreakable promise.

It was a laughable arsenal. He could not out-maneuver Iohannes in the halls he controlled; he could not out-fight Georgios in the training yard; nor was he in any position to intervene on the grand stage of global politics.

If he could not play the game, he had to shatter the board.

A slow, wolfish grin spread across Theodorus’s face in the dim light of his room. The path forward became clear. Forged not from strength, but carved from weakness.