EMPIRE REWRITTEN - A Kingdom building/Self insert novel.

The stench was unbearable, clinging to the thick, damp air like a suffocating cloak. Despite the scented incense burning in the corner and the servants' diligent scrubbing, the odor of human filth lingered, seeping into the very stones of the chamber. Michael sat on the edge of the bed, his hands limp on his knees, staring vacantly at the floor.

His wife’s death had left a hollow, aching void inside him. Buried only days ago, her pale face haunted him. The memory of their stillborn child—silent before she ever took a breath—gnawed at him every moment. He had wanted to save them both but had been powerless.

Now the world seemed smaller, darker. The filth, the grime—it repulsed him. He had thought he could adapt, and he was, to this world that wasn’t his, but since her death, everything had become unbearable.

A faint creak sliced through his reverie. Michael glanced up as the door inched open. Niketas, a young servant, stepped in, head bowed, cradling the all-too-familiar chamber pot. The sight of it tightened the knot in Michael's stomach. Another day, the same wretched routine.

"Just take it and go," Michael muttered, his voice hoarse. His head pounded with relentless grief and exhaustion.

Niketas moved quickly, but in his haste, his foot caught the edge of the rug. The chamber pot slipped from his hands, crashing to the floor. The contents spilled out, soaking into the cracks between the stones, the pungent odor intensifying despite the sweet incense.

For a moment, the world froze.

Michael stared at the mess, the smell wrapping around him, squeezing his chest. His heart hammered. The image of his wife's final moments surged forward—her labored breaths, the life fading from her eyes. The helplessness engulfed him anew.

"Goddamn it!" he roared, jumping to his feet. Niketas flinched, scrambling back, his face pale.

"My lord, I—I’m sorry, please—"

"Shut up!" Michael spat, stepping toward him. His voice trembled with grief and boiling disgust. The stench filled his nostrils, making him feel as though the world was rotting around him.

Niketas dropped to his knees, fingers trembling as he tried to gather the mess with his bare hands. The sight of him, groveling in the filth, twisted something deep within Michael—a mix of revulsion and a haunting reflection of his own helplessness.

Michael's hand shot out before he could stop himself. He struck Niketas across the face, the blow echoing in the stone chamber. The boy gasped, collapsing to the floor, clutching his cheek.

A wave of guilt crashed over him. This boy wasn't to blame. The filth, the relentless stench—it wasn't his doing. But the chasm left by his wife's death consumed everything. It was too much.

"You filthy little..." he muttered bitterly. Niketas lay on the floor, shaking with fear.

Silence filled the room. Michael stared at him, his palm stinging from the blow. What am I doing?

He hadn't meant to lash out. The grief, the loss—it was consuming him.

Michael's hand fell to his side. "Get up," he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion. He turned away, gazing out the window at the rolling hills of the Morea under a canopy of storm-laden clouds. "Clean it up. And get out."

Niketas scrambled to his feet, quickly gathering the soiled pot and mopping up the mess. The rustling of cloth and clatter of pottery intensified the ache within Michael.

The stench lingered—a sharp reminder of the filth consuming his life. But it wasn't the smell that haunted him now.

It was the cold realization that he was changing. The grief, the relentless loss, the unyielding squalor—this world— they were molding him into someone else.

Someone darker.

Someone crueler.

Clermont, February 1430

Michael stood at the window, his breath fogging the glass as he stared out over the snow-dusted hills of the Morea. The winter had been long and bitter, not only in weather but in his soul. The pain of losing Theodora still gnawed at him, a hollow ache that refused to fade, like a wound that would not heal. He missed her, but he also missed the life he had left behind—New York, his sons, the easy comfort of modernity.

His only solace came from the work. In the months since Theodora's death, Michael had thrown himself into his projects with relentless energy—the printing press and the arsenal. They were his distractions, his anchor in a world that often felt alien. The first printing press was no longer just a marvel; it had become the cornerstone of his plans to change the course of history. The arsenal was growing too, with a new bigger furnace recently completed and a fresh batch of cannon—Drakos models—standing ready. Yet, there was always more to be done, and the pressures of ruling weighed heavily on his shoulders.

A knock sounded at the door, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Enter," Michael called, his voice hoarse.

George Sphrantzes stepped into the room, his presence as steady and reliable as ever. "Despot," he began, his tone soft but firm, "the council meeting is later this morning. I thought I might find you here before we convene."

Michael gave a weary nod but remained by the window, his back to George. "I know. I’ll be there."

George moved closer, standing beside him. For a moment, the two men looked out at the snowy landscape in silence. Then George spoke again, carefully choosing his words. "I understand how hard these past months have been for you. Theodora’s death has left a void in all of us, but none feel it more deeply than you."

Michael clenched his fists, feeling the tightness in his chest that always accompanied thoughts of Theodora. "It’s not just her, George," he said quietly. "It’s everything. I thought I could change things—make the empire stronger, more resilient. But every step forward feels like we're barely keeping our heads above water."

George nodded, his expression thoughtful. “But lots have been done my Despot. The arsenal is growing, and so is your printing press. The new furnace is complete, and the larger space you’ve asked for is already under construction. The men work tirelessly. Your vision is taking shape, even if it feels slow."

"Slow..." Michael’s voice trailed off

George cleared his throat and added, "And there is one more issue, Despot. We’ve received word from Ioannina. Carlo II succeeded his uncle Carlo I, but his position is being challenged by his illegitimate cousins, led by Memnone. They’ve appealed to Sultan Murad II for help, and the Ottomans have sent a force under Sinan to support their claim."

Michael’s jaw tightened at the news. "And Theodora’s death... "

Michael then stared at the flickering flames, the enormity of their situation weighing on him. "For now, we focus on what we can control. Secure the traders, sell what we must. We’ll deal with the Ottomans when we have to, but right now, our survival depends on our trade."

Just then, a servant entered the room, carrying a small bundle of letters. "Despot, these arrived from Constantinople."

Michael took the letters, recognizing the familiar seals. The first was from his mother, Helena Dragas, now residing in a monastery in the capital. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter, her comforting words filling the room as he read.

"My son, I grieve with you for Theodora. No words can ease your pain, but know that I pray for her soul and for you. Grief is a burden we must all carry in this life, but in time, the weight will lessen. I am proud of all you have accomplished, and I know Theodora is watching over you from Heaven. Be strong, my son. The Empire needs you now more than ever. With love, your mother."

Michael’s hands trembled slightly as he folded the letter back. Though Helena Dragas was not really his mother, her words carried a warmth and comfort that he hadn't realized he needed.

The next letter bore the imperial seal of his brother, Emperor John VIII. Michael opened it cautiously, unsure of what to expect.

"Brother, I am deeply saddened by the news of Theodora’s passing. I know this loss weighs heavily upon you, and I share in your sorrow. I wanted to thank you personally for the Latin Bible you sent. It is a truly remarkable creation, and I believe it will aid in the unification of the churches, as we have long hoped. I plan to visit you in Glarentza when I can, to see this miraculous printing press you’ve built. You have my gratitude, and my support, always."

Michael set the letter down, mixed emotions swirling within him. His brother’s words, while kind, were a reminder of the political weight that still rested on his shoulders. The unification of the churches—an ambitious plan, but one fraught with danger. Not everyone supported the idea, and he knew his efforts with the Latin Bible had stirred resentment among traditionalists like his brother Theodore.

"Good news?" George asked.

Michael sighed. "John is pleased with the Latin Bible. He thinks it will help with the unification. He’s even talking about visiting Glarentza to see the press for himself."

George raised an eyebrow. "That could be...interesting."

"Yes," Michael muttered. "Interesting is one way to put it."

The Council Meeting

Later that morning, Michael sat at the head of the large table in the council chamber. The room was sparsely lit, the fire casting long shadows across the stone walls. A large blackboard stood against one wall, a new addition to the meetings—a simple yet effective tool for demonstrating the state of their logistics, their stockpiles, and their debts. White chalk lines crisscrossed the board, showing figures for resources, projections, and supply chains. It was a modern idea for a medieval world, but one that had quickly proven its worth.

Around the table sat George Sphrantzes, Theophilus Dragas, Petros—the newly appointed steward—and two senior officials. Their expressions reflected a mix of anticipation and concern as they prepared to address the pressing issues of the day.

Petros, a young man in his mid-twenties, held a bundle of ledgers in his hands, his sharp eyes scanning the data before he spoke. "Despot, the heavy winter has dealt a severe blow to our cotton fields. Much of the crop has been damaged, and our paper production can’t keep pace with the demand from the printing presses—especially now that we have four new presses in operation. If we can’t secure more raw materials soon, we’ll be forced to halt production."

Theophilus added, "Moreover, the Venetians are expecting their paper order too. With much of our stockpiled paper used for printing Bibles, we're at risk of failing both their demands and our own goals."

Michael leaned forward, fingers drumming lightly on the table. "How many Bibles do we have ready, and what's our projected stock when the traders arrive in spring?"

Theophilus replied, "We currently have 400 Bibles and expect to reach around 600 by spring. Selling them to the Venetians and Genoese could generate enough gold to cover our debts and stabilize the treasury for several months."

Petros rose from his seat and moved to the blackboard, quickly sketching out the figures. "Even if we price each Bible conservatively at twenty gold ducats, the revenue from the sale would more than cover our current debts. However," he paused, tapping the board with the chalk, "without addressing the paper shortage caused by the damaged cotton fields, this success will be short-lived."

Michael’s gaze swept over the figures on the board, weighing their options. "Our immediate priority is clear. We need to sell the Bibles to clear our debts and ensure the treasury can support us through the coming months. But we cannot overlook the paper shortage. Securing more cotton is vital for sustaining production, or the presses will grind to a halt."

George exchanged a glance with Theophilus. "We have twelve cannons so far, but our bronze supplies are dwindling. Without more, the foundry's output will slow. Our gunpowder situation is even more critical. We've nearly exhausted our supply, and without the means to produce it locally, our cannons will be useless."

Michael's expression hardened. "Becoming self-sufficient is crucial. After securing funds from the Bible sales, we'll focus on obtaining more cotton, bronze, and establishing local gunpowder production. We cannot allow the presses or the foundry to stop."

As the meeting drew to a close and the council members began to disperse, Michael lingered by the blackboard, his eyes tracing the lines and numbers. He felt a sense of focus returning—a determination to push through the difficulties. They had come this far, and now they had a plan to ensure their efforts weren’t wasted.

Michael’s thoughts drifted to the new steward, Petros. The young man had risen quickly through the ranks, thanks to his sharp mind and practical approach. Watching him work, Michael couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia. Petros reminded him of his own son—Jason—not in appearance, but in character. Both were driven by an unwavering dedication and a keen sense of responsibility, qualities that had always impressed Michael.