He rode back toward the gates of Constantinople at a measured pace, drawing the reins just enough to slow the animal without signaling hesitation. The walls rose ahead in their accustomed mass, stone layered upon stone, banners shifting in the mild wind that came off the water. He adjusted his posture in the saddle deliberately. Shoulders back. Chin level. The bearing of a noble accustomed to deference and disinterest alike.

  Arrogance, when worn properly, discouraged inquiry. And inquiry was one thing he did not need at the moment.

  The guards at the gate gave him only cursory attention. His attire, his seat, the quality of the horse beneath him, these answered questions before they were voiced. He inclined his head minimally and passed through without incident, allowing the animal to follow familiar streets toward the manor where the company had taken residence.

  The city pressed close around him. Vendors shouted. Carts creaked over uneven stone. The scent of spice and refuse mingled beneath the sun. He had grown accustomed again to light after days aboard the sailing vessel, where the horizon had been unbroken and the glare off the sea relentless. Here the brightness fractured against rooftops and walls, caught in narrow streets and dispersed in fragments.

  It felt faintly unreal.

  Only days prior he had stood beside a woman who did not age, whose companion lay coiled among cliffs like an outcropping of living stone. He had spoken of gods and endurance and history buried beneath sand. He had learned from scrolls older than most nations that currently claimed permanence.

  Now he rode among fishermen and traders who would never suspect such conversations had taken place beyond their sight.

  The contrast unsettled him more than he wished to admit.

  As he guided the horse along a broader avenue, his thoughts turned, as they had increasingly done as of late, toward a suspicion he had tried to suppress.

  Perhaps the past he occupied was not the one he believed it to be.

  The thought had lingered before. Minor deviations. Subtle inconsistencies. He had accounted for them as errors in recollection or as distortions introduced by incomplete records in his former age. History had never been pristine and true. It had always been interpreted, filtered, and revised.

  Yet a prehistoric creature perched above the Aegean complicated such explanations.

  A dragon did not belong in footnotes.

  It could be argued, he told himself, that such things had been hidden. That the Perennials, with their reach and patience, had ensured certain anomalies remained confined to rumor. That bones had been buried, witnesses silenced, chronicles edited.

  They were capable of such.

  He knew that.

  And yet.

  A part of him considered the possibility that this was not merely the past as he had known it, but a divergence. A branch. A strange continuity that resembled his own but was not identical to it.

  That thought disturbed him more than any creature could.

  Because if this was not the precise history he remembered, then the consequences of action were no longer bounded by prediction.

  He slowed again as the manor came into view, its fa?ade unremarkable but well-kept. Servants moved in the courtyard with habitual efficiency. He did not remember these servants so he did not dismount immediately. Instead, he allowed the horse to circle once, considering the weight that had settled behind his ribs.

  She had been correct, in part.

  He feared what a single push might do.

  He was not arrogant enough to believe he could reshape history wholesale. Empires did not bend entirely at the will of one man. Systems resisted. Power redistributed. Unintended consequences multiplied.

  But there was, buried deep and unwelcome, a fragment of him that believed he could alter something.

  How many times had he restrained himself?

  He imagined it with uncomfortable clarity.

  Constantinople, despite being fortified and defiant. Sultan Mehmed II advanced with ambition to conquer it. Remy knew the outcome. He had studied it. He had walked through its aftermath in another life through history books and documentaries.

  He could intervene.

  A blade drawn at the correct moment. A throat cut in darkness. The death of a sultan before cannons breached walls. Or more efficiently still, a device constructed with knowledge no engineer of this era possessed. A well-placed explosion. A bullet through bone and brain before the siege reached its crescendo.

  He possessed the knowledge.

  He possessed the means to approximate it.

  The city could be spared.

  Its churches might stand unconverted. Its scholars unscattered. Its long decline postponed, perhaps indefinitely.

  He could watch the vassals fracture without their central force. Watch the Sultan’s ambition devour itself.

  The images rose unbidden.

  He suppressed them.

  It was not revulsion that halted him.

  It was fear.

  Not fear of retaliation.

  Not fear of death. Never death.

  Fear of alteration.

  If he shifted this fulcrum, what followed?

  History did not collapse neatly. It reassembled. Trade routes redirected. Alliances reformed. Wars delayed often returned with greater ferocity. A saved city might become an aggressor in another century. A spared empire might stifle innovation elsewhere.

  He did not fear immediate bloodshed.

  He feared the unknown trajectory beyond it.

  And beneath that calculation lay something more difficult to confront.

  If he allowed himself to believe he could intervene decisively, if he accepted that capacity fully, what would restrain him thereafter?

  The first act of alteration might be rationalized as necessary. The second as protective. The third as optimization.

  Arrogance rarely announced itself at the outset.

  It accumulated.

  He had seen men in his former era wield power under the guise of prevention. They had possessed data, projections, and simulations. They had acted to avert catastrophe and in doing so had precipitated others.

  He was not immune to that pattern simply because he recognized it. Lived it once.

  The horse shifted beneath him. A stablehand approached, bowing slightly before taking the reins. He dismounted without flourish and handed the animal over, offering brief instruction regarding feed and rest.

  His boots struck stone with muted finality.

  He entered the manor and ascended to his chamber without greeting more than necessary. Once inside, he removed his gloves slowly, setting them upon the table with deliberate care.

  He could save Constantinople.

  The statement, framed plainly, seemed almost clinical.

  And yet the cost of such salvation extended beyond a single campaign.

  He knew how this world would end. He had lived through its conclusion in another age. He knew how fire fell from the sky and how cities dissolved into ash under the pressure of accumulated arrogance.

  He knew, too, how it ended for him.

  If he were undying, truly incapable of harm, if blade and flame glanced from him as from stone, perhaps he would possess the audacity to shape events boldly. To rule openly. To claim dominion as others of long life had done.

  Even simple longevity inspired reverence among those who misunderstood it. The Perennials had demonstrated that. Appear unaged before successive generations and myth would do the rest.

  He could cultivate such a myth if he wished.

  He did not.

  Because a long life did not mean immunity.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  He could be killed.

  And more than that, he could fail.

  The burden of reshaping the world in any meaningful way was not borne in a single decisive strike. It required maintenance. Correction. Adaptation across decades. Across centuries. It required stomach and patience beyond mere survival.

  Change of consequence was slow.

  Methodical.

  Exhausting.

  It did not unfold in the dramatic arc of a single assassination.

  It required governance. Enforcement. Negotiation. Compromise with those whose motives one distrusted. Constant vigilance against unintended fracture.

  He had time.

  He had resources.

  He had knowledge others did not have.

  And yet he hesitated.

  Because to commit to such a path was to relinquish the possibility of retreat.

  He could no longer claim to be an observer if he acted so directly.

  He could no longer pretend that abstention absolved him.

  He removed his coat and set it aside, standing for a moment before the narrow window overlooking the street. The city moved below in ordinary rhythm. Merchants haggled. Children ran between stalls. A woman carried bread wrapped in cloth. A man argued over the price of fish.

  They did not know how fragile their future was.

  They did not know how easily he might tip it.

  He pressed his palm lightly against the cool stone of the wall.

  All he wanted, at times, was to return to his own era.

  To familiarity. To the known architecture of consequence. To a world whose trajectory, however flawed, he had already accepted.

  But that desire was an impossibility.

  The bridge backward did not exist.

  He was here.

  And the world, as it stood, would continue whether he intervened or not.

  The idea that he might save it entirely was an illusion. At best, he could redirect it.

  At worst, he could accelerate its unraveling.

  He closed his eyes briefly.

  Cowardice, some would call it.

  Perhaps it was.

  Yet he understood something that zealots often did not. To change the world in a way that endured required more than courage. It required surrendering one’s own desire for simplicity. It required the willingness to be blamed for outcomes decades removed from initial action.

  He was not certain he possessed that appetite.

  He opened his eyes again.

  The city did not tremble.

  The sky did not darken.

  No omen marked his indecision.

  Constantinople would face its fate in time.

  And he would face his own if it did.

  He had been staring outside of the window for some time when a knock came.

  “Come in,” he said.

  The latch shifted. The door opened inward with care. Jehan stepped inside, still clad in the armor and hood she had grown accustomed to wearing. The light caught faintly along the curve of her pauldron before she reached up and lowered her headwear, revealing her face.

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment before fully crossing the threshold.

  “I am glad you are unharmed, Sir Remy.”

  He nodded once. “I am. The task was done well.”

  She stepped further into the chamber, the faint sound of metal against leather marking her movement.

  “You’ve been gone for a while.”

  “It required time,” he replied evenly. “Be glad it didn’t take half a year.”

  Jehan gave a small nod. She did not smile.

  “The Company is wondering when we will move,” she said. “Some don’t want to continue, hoping that they could stay in this city.”

  He kept his gaze directed outward, toward the stretch of sky framed by stone. “And your thoughts?”

  Jehan did not answer at once. When she spoke, her tone carried conviction sharpened by reflection.

  “The people here… they mutilate the articles of the Faith, blaspheme God Almighty, the Son, and the Holy Spirit who have raised, founded, exalted, and enlightened a thousand ways through a thousand miracles. Many of them are blind, but not because they lack eyes or the ability to see. Do they truly believe that they will escape unpunished? Or are they unaware that the reason God does not punish them now, permits them to remain in darkness and error, is so that the more they indulge themselves in sin and sacrilege, the more He prepares greater suffering and punishment for them.”

  It was a bold declaration.

  He turned his head slightly, regarding her profile rather than fully facing her.

  “They are still Christians, Jehan.”

  “They do not even understand that the enemy, the Saracens, is close to their lands,” she continued, her voice tightening. “I truly believe that it is because of this that their Christian brothers do not come to their aid to protect Christendom.”

  “So,” he said mildly, “you’ve been searching the city and asking questions.”

  “What else is there to do after practice and study?” she asked, with a boldness that suggested her thoughts had been accumulating for some time and had nowhere else to go. “So, Sir Remy, I have to ask. Whence will we continue our journey?”

  “Soon,” he answered. “Let me take a rest first. I’ve been riding without pause. And my thoughts are elsewhere.” He paused, then added, “Do not give me that face. We will leave when it is the right time. Tell the others that I’ve returned, though I think Sir Gaston would be the only one to care.”

  A faint, restrained laugh escaped him. “They followed him, not me.”

  Jehan looked at him oddly at that, studying his expression as though measuring the sincerity of his remark as he did not elaborate.

  “I took care of Morgan,” she said instead. “He is fierce. It is truly best if no one touches him.”

  “Yeah.”

  She did not move.

  The silence that followed lingered.

  He returned his gaze to the window. The sky had begun to shift toward late afternoon, its blue deepening at the edges. Voices drifted faintly from the courtyard below.

  “I had been worried,” she confessed at last. “That you would not come back.”

  “And leave my horse Morgan behind?” he replied, with a faint lift at the corner of his mouth. “I did not think you would be anxious about that, Jehan.”

  “I am your squire, Sir Remy.”

  The statement was simple and direct.

  He studied the line where the sky met the rooftop before speaking again.

  “What are your plans, Jehan?”

  “Sir?”

  “You could leave.”

  The words were offered without accusation or encouragement.

  She held her chin lightly between thumb and forefinger, considering. It was not a gesture of confusion, but of deliberate thought.

  “I could,” she said. “But I wish to follow you. You are a good doctor, Sir. You know much, and you speak their foreign tongue. I cannot. It is in my best interest to remain with you for now.”

  He inclined his head. “I see.”

  The response was neutral, neither dismissive nor affirming. She seemed to search his expression once more, perhaps seeking something further for approval, reassurance, or even command.

  He offered none.

  She shifted her stance, as though intending to speak again, then reconsidered. The metallic whisper of her armor accompanied her as she stepped back toward the door.

  “Rest well, Sir Remy,” she said quietly.

  He did not turn. “You as well.”

  The door closed with soft finality, leaving him alone once more.

  The chamber regained its prior stillness. The light through the window had shifted again, casting longer shadows along the stone floor. He remained standing where he was, hands loosely clasped behind his back.

  Her words lingered.

  “They mutilate the articles of the Faith huh,” he muttered.

  He did not doubt her sincerity. He had seen it sharpen in her over the months. Conviction honed by study, by observation, by disappointment.

  Yet he could not share the certainty with which she framed the world.

  Cities rose and fell. The devout and the indifferent alike suffered consequences. Punishment did not always align with doctrine. Survival did not always reward virtue.

  He exhaled slowly.

  Jehan’s faith was a structure she inhabited fully. It informed her judgments, guided her indignation, and sustained her purpose.

  He, on the other hand, had seen too much to rest comfortably within such walls.

  He moved closer to the window, resting one hand lightly against the frame. From here, the courtyard was partially visible. A pair of men practiced sword forms with uneven coordination. A servant crossed with a basket of linens. Morgan stood tethered near the stable entrance, head lifted, ears attentive.

  Jehan had taken care of him.

  He acknowledged that silently.

  Her worry, spoken plainly, had not been exaggerated. She had believed, at least in some corner of her mind, that he might not return.

  It was not an unreasonable fear.

  He had vanished before.

  Not from her, specifically. But from others.

  She could leave.

  He had meant it.

  Following him was neither obligation nor destiny.

  It was a choice.

  She framed her choice in practical terms, language, medicine, and advantage. But beneath that practicality lay something more difficult to quantify.

  Trust.

  He did not ask for it.

  He did not encourage it.

  Still, it accumulated for some reason he did not understand, leaving him to affirm that even in this era, women were still confusing.

  He withdrew from the window at last and crossed to the table where his gloves and cloak lay folded. He touched the fabric absently, considering the trajectory ahead.

  The Company’s hesitation was predictable. Constantinople offered an opportunity. Trade. Stability, at least in the present moment. To continue onward meant uncertainty. Hardship. Risk without guaranteed reward.

  But Remy cared not if they stayed, with or without them, he’d still go.