Constantinople was, above all things, profoundly Orthodox.

  Remy learned this not from proclamation, nor from law, but from motion. From the way they behaved. One crossed oneself instinctively when passing a great church, the hand rising and falling without thought, as natural as breathing. Hats were removed near sacred buildings, not hurriedly, but with a practiced deliberation that suggested habit rather than fear. Voices softened near shrines. Laughter dulled. Even disputes lost their edge when icons were near.

  Icons, here, were not ornaments. They were kissed, lips pressed briefly to wood and paint, reverently, carefully. They were not handled casually, not turned or examined like curiosities. To touch without purpose was a kind of rudeness, if not outright impiety.

  Inside the churches, Remy observed, the separation of men and women was immediate and unquestioned. No benches lined the floors. Worship was done standing, as it had been for centuries. Bodies bore the strain without complaint. Incense hung thick and constant, curling into the high spaces until the air itself seemed sanctified. Chanting replaced spoken prayer. Words were not argued with God here, they were offered, sustained, repeated, until meaning dissolved into sound and sound into devotion.

  Time did not behave as it did elsewhere.

  Constantinople followed a ritual calendar, not a clock. Days were not measured by hours but by services. Bells and chants marked the passing of time more faithfully than the sun. Processions, according to what he heard, moved through the streets on feast days, slow rivers of humanity bearing icons, candles, relics, their rhythm older than any living memory. In times of danger, relics were displayed publicly, as if faith itself could be drawn like a blade and held against the dark.

  People here believed, truly believed, that the Virgin Mary protected the city. That Constantinople would fall only if God allowed it. This conviction was not na?ve. It was resolute. Omens mattered deeply to them. Comets were debated in hushed voices. Earthquakes prompted prayer before panic. Eclipses were watched with dread and awe, their meanings parsed by priests and laymen alike. The city listened to the heavens as closely as it did to its own walls.

  Remy moved through this world as an observer.

  The Byzantine Greeks dressed in a manner that spoke of restraint rather than decay. Long tunics and robes, often dark blue, brown, or black. Wide belts cinched at the waist. Cloaks fastened with simple brooches. Soft leather shoes were common, practical and worn. Beards were prevalent among men, neatly trimmed but not ostentatious. Hair was kept orderly. There was pride here, but it was inward, disciplined.

  Women wore layered garments with long sleeves, head coverings arranged with care. Among the wealthy, embroidery was rich but controlled. Silk was still worn by elites, though without the extravagance of earlier centuries. Purple, that most dangerous of colors, was strictly regulated. Imperial symbolism remained sacred. Even now, with the empire diminished, the idea of it endured.

  Venetians, by contrast, stood out immediately.

  Their shorter, fitted coats, brighter colors, bare heads, and confident posture marked them as foreigners before they ever spoke. They moved differently, too, with an ease that bordered on arrogance, as though the city were a place to be navigated rather than revered. They were tolerated. Watched. Remembered.

  The sack of 1204 had not faded from memory.

  Remy himself was hardly invisible. A sturdy horse, armor well-kept, a sword worn without affectation, it was difficult not to glance at him. He felt those glances without acknowledging them. He had long since learned that visibility was not the same as recognition.

  When the time came to depart the city by sea, he did so without company.

  There were many isles scattered across the waters, their names and reputations carried more by rumor than by chart. One of them was the city of Patera, unknown to him in all but fragments. He knew only, through some passing talk, that Saint Nicholas had been born there, and that a wine called the Wine of Martha was made in the region. It was not much to go on. It was enough.

  He purchased passage quietly, paying for the right to be carried, himself and his sword and his horse, through the isles beyond the city. The sailors eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. More than one warned him that he was too well-equipped for such a journey. That the sun would kill him before the sea would.

  “The sun will cook you in that,” one had said, squinting at the armor.

  Remy had assured them calmly that even under a blazing sun, he was unbothered. They imagined, perhaps, that he was being fried beneath the steel. They could not know that his armor was padded with materials designed to breathe, that it had been fitted with care, nor that this body had been trained to endure heat, hunger, and strain beyond what most men considered reasonable in this era.

  To them, he must have looked like a fool.

  At sea, he stayed close to his horse, a steady presence amid the shifting deck. The men kept watch for pirates, eyes scanning the horizon with practiced vigilance. The isles slid past them like dark thoughts, each one promising shelter or danger in equal measure.

  It was during one such passage that a younger sailor approached him.

  The boy, he could not have been more than eighteen, was openly enchanted by Remy’s appearance and demeanor. There was an earnestness to him, a lack of guile that had not yet been worn away by salt and fear. He lingered near Remy’s side, working up the courage to speak.

  At last, he did.

  “Milord,” the sailor said, voice low but eager. “They say you are going after the dragon.”

  Remy turned his head slightly, the helm catching the light.

  “You know of this?” he asked, frowning behind the steel.

  “Of course,” the boy replied, eyes bright. “They say she is a hundred fathoms of length, as men say, for I have not seen her. And the folk of the isles call her the Lady of the Land. She lies in an old castle, in a cave, and shows herself twice or thrice in the year. She does no harm to any man, unless men do her harm first.”

  The boy leaned closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret.

  “They say she was once a fair damosel, changed and transformed into the likeness of a dragon by a pagan goddess they called Diana. And she shall endure in that form until the time that a knight comes who is so hardy that he dares to kiss her upon the mouth. Then shall she turn again to her own kind and be a woman once more. But after that, she shall not live long.”

  Remy listened without interruption.

  The tale was familiar in shape, if not in detail. Transformation. Curse. Conditional redemption. Death following release. It bore the marks of old stories layered upon older truths. The sailor finished, watching Remy expectantly, as though awaiting confirmation.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “I am not hunting dragons,” Remy said at last.

  The boy nodded, as if that settled nothing at all.

  “Still,” he said, “you look the sort.”

  Remy turned his gaze back to the sea.

  Hearing the tale, he understood why the Perennials had urged him to go. Sometimes, there were truths buried within such rumors. Not always literal. Not always false. The world had a way of disguising anomalies as legends, of smoothing sharp realities into stories that could be repeated without consequence.

  Sometimes, those truths were stranger than fiction.

  The ship pressed on, sails taut, the city receding behind them. Constantinople did not mark his departure any more than it had marked his arrival. Bells rang. Chants carried. The Virgin’s icons watched from walls and domes, serene and untroubled.

  Remy stood at the rail, the wind tugging at his cloak, and considered the path ahead.

  It took longer than expected for the ship to reach Volos.

  The distance was not insignificant, nearly three hundred miles west of Constantinople, and the sea, while not hostile, was stubborn. Winds shifted without warning. The sails strained, then slackened. Time stretched in the way it often did at sea, marked less by distance than by repetition. Rope. Salt. Sun. The creak of timber beneath one’s feet.

  When they finally reached port, Remy disembarked without ceremony.

  He led his horse down the gangplank first, allowing the animal to feel solid ground again, to smell earth instead of brine. The horse snorted softly, hooves testing stone with cautious confidence. Remy loosened the reins and let him stand for a moment before moving on.

  Volos greeted him without warmth.

  The harbor was busy, but not welcoming. Goods were hauled ashore in disciplined silence. Voices carried commands rather than greetings. This was Colos, Volos by another tongue, a major mainland port city in Thessaly, a gateway to the Sporades Islands. From here, one could reach Skiathos, Skopelos, Alonissos, and Mount Pelion. Beyond, further still, lay Delos, sacred and uninhabited, its ruins whispering of Apollo and Artemis, of gods who had once walked openly among men.

  Now, gods had been replaced by sultans.

  Sultan Murad II ruled here. Volos was administered as part of the Ottoman provincial system, governed locally but ultimately answering to the Sultan’s authority. The order was firm. The presence unmistakable.

  The moment Remy stepped fully onto the dock, the Ottoman guards noticed him.

  Armor. Horse. Sword. They did not rush him. They did not shout. They simply moved, quietly, efficiently, until he found himself surrounded by men whose hands rested near weapons but did not yet draw them.

  The port official approached last. He held his head high, chin lifted with practiced arrogance. His tone, when he spoke, assumed dominance. He demanded purpose. Papers. Explanation. His eyes flicked constantly between Remy’s armor and the coin purse at his belt.

  Remy listened without interruption.

  When he produced the letter of passage from the ruler of Granada, the official scoffed. Called it fraud. Argued loudly in his native tongue, gesturing sharply, inviting agreement from those nearby, hoping they'd lick his boots.

  Remy answered him in that same tongue.

  The shift was immediate.

  His pronunciation was clean. His phrasing precise. He did not threaten. He did not plead. He stated simply that he had come in peace and had no desire to provide conflict. He spoke of pilgrimage. Of trade routes. Of lawful passage. The official’s confidence wavered, just slightly.

  Coin followed.

  Not much. Enough.

  The guards withdrew. The official’s expression hardened, but he nodded once, curt and begrudging. They would grant him three days in Volos. No more. Beyond that, he would be considered a spy.

  Remy inclined his head in acknowledgment.

  It was enough.

  He led his horse away from the docks and followed the sailors into the city proper, to a place to drink. An open-air establishment, weathered and forgotten by time. The stones were worn smooth. The wooden tables bore scars from generations of use. The air smelled of old wine and dust.

  He ate alone.

  Bread. Olives. Thin stew. He sipped quietly, listening to the murmur of voices around him, the cadence of a city that belonged to someone else. Ottoman speech layered over Greek. Laughter cut short. Deals made with glances rather than words.

  It was there, while he was eating and resting, that the knight arrived.

  The man wore a cloak and moved with the easy confidence of one accustomed to armor. He did not ask permission to sit. He simply took the seat opposite Remy, placing his hands calmly on the table.

  “I am Sir Nikolaos Kalymnios,” the man said. “Born to a Greek noble family from Kalymnos, near Kos.”

  Remy studied him briefly, as he listened to the man.

  Nikolaos was Orthodox by birth, though formally Latin Christian now, having entered the service of the Knights Hospitaller. Beneath his cloak, Remy glimpsed the familiar surcoat, black with the white eight-pointed cross. His shield, propped nearby, bore a blue field with a silver dolphin, a curious nod to his Greek maritime heritage.

  “Allowed to the Hospitallers,” Nikolaos continued, “sworn to the Grand Master on Rhodes.”

  “Then you are far from home,” Remy said.

  Nikolaos smiled faintly. “As are you.”

  There was a pause.

  “A boy told me,” Nikolaos said at last, “that a knight in a blue cloak has come to investigate a matter regarding a dragon.”

  Remy exhaled slowly through his nose.

  “A nosy boy,” he said, recalling the youth aboard the ship who had spoken of the Lady of the Land. “But yes. Nothing more than a passing tale.”

  “They call her the Lady of Lango,” Nikolaos said, his tone sober. “She is said to be two hundred metres in length, taking the form and likeness of a great dragon. A folk tale, of course. There is only one castle on Kos, and it is built from stone taken from the ancient city of Halicarnassus.”

  “I see,” Remy said.

  Nikolaos watched him closely. “You are unconvinced?”

  “What am I unconvinced of, exactly?” Remy asked.

  “That there is a reason to go to Kos,” Nikolaos replied. “You are armed as if you are on a quest to slay a rumor.”

  “And you are awfully fixated on this rumor, Sir,” Remy returned.

  Nikolaos leaned forward slightly. “There are evils in this world that require faith and a good sword,” he said. “Please do not be fooled by quests dressed as curiosity. Dangers rarely announce themselves honestly.”

  “Is that so?” Remy said.

  He did not argue further.

  He finished his meal, sipped his drink, and allowed the fatigue of travel to settle into his bones. Nikolaos watched him for a time, then stood and left without another word.

  By morning, Remy was back at the ship.

  The horse was loaded. Provisions secured. No one questioned him. The sailors were eager to depart. Volos had no patience for lingering strangers.

  As the sails caught the wind and the city receded, Remy stood at the rail once more.

  Ahead lay Kos.

  And whatever truth waited there, whether a legend or lie… it would soon reveal itself.