Capítulo 3: A Dream of Renewed Bonds
[18th December 1408AD, Palace of Blachernae, Constantinople.]
Eleven years had passed, and John Dragases Palaiologos, son of Manuel II, had finally come of age. At sixteen, he was considered an adult by the standards of the time—ready to step into the world of courtly politics, intrigue, and leadership.
Today, he would be formally introduced as a despot, an heir to the empire, a figure expected to command respect and wield influence. It was an honor steeped in tradition, but one that felt less like a blessing and more like a daunting responsibility.
For John, this day marked more than just a ceremonial milestone. It was the culmination of years spent adapting to a world he had never asked to be a part of.
Gone was the man who once sat listlessly in a cramped apartment, counting the hours in a world devoid of hope. Yet, parts of that past self still lingered, haunting him in quiet moments.
Even now, his dreams betrayed him.
The night before, John had been visited by fleeting memories of his previous life. He dreamt of his estranged parents—the mother and father who had drifted apart when he was sixteen, the same age he was now.
Their faces, blurry and indistinct, stirred little in the way of emotion. He couldn't remember their features clearly, nor could he recall any moments of warmth or connection. All that remained was a vague sense of neglect and disillusionment, a solitary life that had ended without closure.
When he awoke, the cold reality of his new life settled over him like a familiar weight.
A maid stood at his bedside, her presence gentle but efficient. With a slight bow, she began her daily routine of assisting him in dressing for the occasion.
As she worked, John's thoughts lingered on the dream. It felt distant now, like a half-forgotten whisper, yet it left behind an ache he couldn't entirely shake.
*knock* *knock* *knock*
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The rhythmic tapping at the door broke John's reverie.
"Young despot, it is I, Demetrius," came the familiar voice.
The door opened to reveal a tall, lean young man, barely older than John. Clad in the plain yet dignified garb of a knight-in-training, Demetrius stepped into the room with an air of confidence.
Demetrius, as the young man introduced himself, was John's hetaireia—a personal guard and companion, chosen for him by Gavriel, a domestikos of the Byzantine army.
From an early age, Demetrius had displayed exceptional promise as a fighter. Gavriel, impressed by the boy's natural talent and determination, had taken him under his wing, grooming him to one day serve the empire.
Demetrius had thrown himself into training with unwavering focus, as though his very existence depended on it. In a crumbling empire where even the brightest hopes seemed dim, he clung fiercely to a dream of serving with honor, of fighting for something greater than himself.
His meeting with John had been nothing short of fate.
When Gavriel brought Demetrius along to assist in training the young prince in the ways of the sword, neither man had expected much.
At ten years old, many expected John as an untrained and inexperienced, his life spent thus far within the palace walls. But what unfolded that day shocked everyone present.
No one could believe the scene they saw.
John, with no prior experience, defeated a seasoned squire—a boy several years older who had been rigorously trained in combat.
It was astonishing.
To Gavriel, it was a revelation of the young despot's untapped potential, he might've known it but seeing is believing, that astonishing swordplay which he had never seen before mesmerized him.
To Demetrius, it was a humbling moment that both stung his pride and ignited his admiration. For his credit, the defeat was such that it does not cause him lose faith in himself, instead he views it as another revelation of what was above the sky when seeing it below the well.
As someone who had long considered himself as one of the most gifted trainee in the empire, being bested by a ten-year-old—effortlessly, no less—was a moment he would never forget.
Rumors of the prince's extraordinary talent quickly spread through the palace, though not everyone believed them.
Even Emperor Manuel II was skeptical at first, dismissing the tale as an exaggeration. Yet, Gavriel and Demetrius knew the truth: this boy was no ordinary child.
Despite the initial blow to his ego, Demetrius' respect for John only deepened. The prince's natural skill with a sword was one thing, but his composure and focus under pressure were what truly set him apart.
Demetrius had made a vow to himself that day: he would become John's hetaireia, the first and most loyal among his guards.
Gavriel, noticing the young squire's determination, encouraged him in this pursuit.
"Follow his footsteps," Gavriel had told Demetrius, "and you shall see that our empire is not yet dead. As long as the beacon is lit, the fire within shall endure."
Now, years later, Demetrius stood by John's side, proud of the path he had chosen. Never once had he regretted his decision.
As Demetrius entered John's chamber, the young despot looked up from where he stood by the window, the light of the morning casting a soft glow over the ornate room.
"What is it, Demetrius? Is there news that requires my attention this morning?"
The knight straightened, his expression one of quiet reverence as he replied, "His Majesty has sent me to fetch you, Your Highness. The event is about to begin, and he expects your immediate presence in the hall."
"The time for your introduction has come."
John paused, absorbing the weight of those words. Today was the day he would step into the public eye—not as a young prince confined to the palace, but as a full-fledged despot.
A grin spread across John's face, though there was something almost defiant in it.
"Ah... so it's time at last? Finally!" he exclaimed. "I can escape this damn cage!"
The remark caught Demetrius off guard. The knight tilted his head in confusion, unsure whether the prince was joking or genuinely relieved.
Once the maid had finished meticulously dressing him in his ceremonial attire, John turned to the mirror. For a moment, he simply stared.
"Is this... how I look in this garment?" he murmured to himself.
Gone was any trace of the disheveled persona of his past life as John Rickett Marlone. The young man reflected in the mirror was regal, his bearing one of quiet authority. Clad in a robe of deep purple trimmed with gold, the embroidery on his garments spoke of a lineage that had endured centuries of triumph and turmoil.
Yet, despite the confidence the attire projected, John couldn't ignore the flicker of uncertainty in his own eyes.
His fingers brushed the intricate patterns on his sleeve as a wave of memories from his former life threatened to rise. The apartment. The loneliness. The crushing monotony of it all.
"Unnecessary thoughts again," he muttered under his breath, forcing himself to focus on the present.
"I should stop thinking about useless things."
Straightening his shoulders, John steeled his mind. I am no longer John Rickett Marlone, he reminded himself. I am John Dragases Palaiologos.
He repeated the words silently, his conviction growing with each repetition.
Taking a deep breath, he turned from the mirror. His heart swelled with a mix of trepidation and excitement as he realized that the chapters of his life were now being written in the annals of history.
"Let's go," John said as he exited his room, his voice steady.
As John and Demetrius made their way toward the great hall, they came across a familiar figure standing idly in the corridor, leaning against a column with his arms crossed. It was Pavlos, John's tutor and one of the few people in the palace whom he held in genuine affection—though the old monk's personality often tested his patience.
"Ah, now you truly look like a proper despot," Pavlos began, his tone dripping with mock seriousness. "Not just a mischievous brat who spends his days tricking people and insulting them to their faces."
Demetrius flinched slightly at the remark, his brows furrowing in irritation. The young knight was fiercely loyal to John and didn't appreciate the old man's barbs, no matter how harmless they might be.
"Now, now, young man," Pavlos said with a chuckle, noticing Demetrius' reaction. "Don't look at me like that. I may not be the most handsome creature alive, capable of making maidens swoon, but rest assured—I have no interest in men, especially ones as stiff as you."
John clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. This old man never stops, does he?
"Good morning, teacher," John said, his tone carrying a feigned politeness that was undercut by his wry expression. "Shouldn't you already be in the hall? Or do you enjoy haunting the corridors like some restless ghost?"
Pavlos grinned, clearly unfazed by the jab. "Why should I waste my time in that pit of vipers?" he retorted, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "The hall is filled with hypocrites whose only honor lies in their ancestors' accomplishments. None of them stand on their own two feet—they lean on the shadows of long-dead glories."
John raised an eyebrow, his amusement growing. Pavlos had always been outspoken, but his disdain for the aristocracy seemed particularly acute today.
"Besides," Pavlos added, waving a hand dismissively, "I have no taste for mingling with fawning sycophants or adhering to pointless formalities. Isolation suits me far better than the charade of etiquette."
John couldn't help but smile. Despite Pavlos' prickly nature, the old monk's eccentricity had become a source of comfort over the years. Even after more than a decade of knowing him, Pavlos still displayed a vigor and sharpness that belied his age, now well into his seventies.
"Isolation, huh?" John remarked, shaking his head in amusement. "Well, it seems even the 'wise' Pavlos can't resist loitering in the hallway to lecture me. Isn't that a bit hypocritical, teacher?"
Pavlos smirked. "Perhaps," he said with a shrug. "But at least I choose to lecture those worth my time, rather than wasting it on fools."
Demetrius, still bristling from earlier, opened his mouth to respond, but Pavlos cut him off with a raised hand.
"Relax, young knight," he said with mock gravity. "Don't take everything so seriously. You'll give yourself wrinkles before you're thirty, and then who will protect our young despot's honor? Certainly not someone who looks like a weathered shield."
Demetrius scowled but wisely kept his silence, while John stifled a laugh.
"Enough teasing," Pavlos said, his tone softening. "John, a word of advice before you step into that hall: confidence without arrogance, and grace without submission. Earn their respect, but never let them underestimate you."
John nodded, his grin fading as he absorbed the words. Pavlos may have been sarcastic and abrasive, but his wisdom was undeniable.
"And one more thing," Pavlos added with a sly grin. "Try not to embarrass me too much. After all, I'll be blamed for your lack of refinement if you trip over your fancy robes or insult the wrong noble."
John rolled his eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at his lips. "I'll try to contain myself," he replied dryly.
With that, Pavlos gave him a final pat on the shoulder and stepped aside, leaning back against the column. "Go on, then. The lions are waiting. Try not to get eaten."
As John and Demetrius continued down the hall, the sound of Pavlos' chuckling followed them.
"How can someone so irritating also be so wise?" Demetrius muttered under his breath.
John grinned. "You'll understand when you're old, Demetrius. Though, with how seriously you take everything, I doubt you'll ever reach Pavlos' level of eccentricity."
Demetrius frowned but said nothing. As they approached the doors to the great hall, John straightened his posture and took a deep breath. The moment of truth was just ahead, and he would need to embody the poise and confidence Pavlos had spoken of.
Still, he couldn't help but glance back briefly. Pavlos remained in the hallway, watching them go with a knowing smile, his sharp eyes glinting in the morning light.
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[Great Hall, Palace of Blachernae, Constantinople.]
The palace chamberlain's voice echoed across the towering walls of the great hall, loud and commanding as it announced John's arrival.
It was the first time he had attended such a grand gathering, let alone one held in his honor. The sheer magnitude of the event overwhelmed him, sending an anxious flutter through his chest.
He couldn't help but recall his former life—back when he was John Rickett Marlone, an insignificant name lost to the tides of history. In that life, he had been a quiet nobody, never the subject of anyone's gaze, much less the center of attention in a magnificent hall filled with the most powerful figures of an empire.
Now, those days felt like a distant memory, but the emotions they carried—those feelings of unpreparedness and doubt—still lingered.
"Confidence without arrogance, grace without submission."
Pavlos' words replayed in his mind like a steady drumbeat. John took a deep breath, forcing the nervous tension to ebb away. He straightened his back and lifted his chin, reminding himself of the role he now had to embody.
He was no longer a shadow of the past. Today, he was a despot—a future leader of the Byzantine Empire.
The crowd watched his every step, countless eyes trailing him as he ascended the dais to stand beside his parents, Emperor Manuel II and Empress Helena. The scrutiny was suffocating, but John pushed through it. It was not until he reached the dais that the stares began to shift—from scrutiny to curiosity, from judgment to evaluation.
-Is that the heir? He looks unassuming.
-Alas, a dying empire still had the time to flaunt their heir...tsk...tsk...tsk..
-I heard that he is of great potential, but does it matter in the end?
He scanned the room quickly, observing the faces around him. He saw envy gleaming in some eyes, respect flickering in others. There were looks of concern, whispers of doubt, and even the occasional dismissive glance.
To someone who had once been an introvert in a world that demanded little from him, it was overwhelming. Yet he understood that this was part of his birthright. Many emperors before him had borne this weight, and he would bear it too—though he suspected that few of them had carried the ghosts of another life within their hearts as he did.
"My son!"
Manuel II's voice rang out, warm and full of pride. He turned toward the assembled nobles, his arms outstretched.
"At last, the day has come when we present to you the despot of our empire!"
John glanced at his father, the words stirring something within him. Despite all his father's missteps as emperor, Manuel's pride in his son felt genuine. The emperor seemed to see in John a glimmer of hope—a hope that had long eluded him as the ruler of a crumbling state.
John's mind briefly wandered to the many conversations he had shared with his father over the years. Though Manuel had often appeared weary, burdened by the empire's decline, those quiet moments between father and son had been a source of comfort. They had taught John something he had never fully understood in his past life: the meaning of family, however imperfect it might be.
The ceremony itself was brief but poignant. Manuel gave a speech extolling the virtues of leadership and the importance of duty. The patriarch offered a solemn prayer, blessing John as a steward of both the empire and the faith. Finally, the crowd erupted into applause as the blessing concluded, their doubts momentarily replaced by anticipation for the young despot's future.
Once the formalities ended, John descended from the dais to mingle with the guests. His nervousness returned in full force—an awkward knot tightening in his chest.
He had never imagined himself engaging with aristocrats, generals, and diplomats, let alone doing so with the ease expected of someone in his position. Yet, as the evening unfolded, John found himself easing into the role.
Perhaps it was his past life's experience of navigating awkward social settings that helped. Or perhaps it was the confidence he had been forced to cultivate since his rebirth. Whatever the reason, he carried himself well enough to leave a good impression.
Noble families, patricians, and even foreign dignitaries came forward to meet him. Each conversation was an exercise in diplomacy, requiring him to balance humility with authority. Most of the guests treated him with polite respect, though some seemed eager to test the young prince, their words laced with veiled challenges.
John handled it all with calm composure, refusing to let their posturing unsettle him.
Among the many guests, one figure stood out: Theodore Kantakouzenos, John's distant granduncle. Theodore belonged to a once-influential dynasty that had played a pivotal role in the Byzantine Empire's past.
The Kantakouzenos family had risen to power during John V's reign through a political marriage that united the two houses.
However, that alliance had been fraught with conflict. The Kantakouzenos dynasty had produced usurpers and power-hungry figures, most notably John VI Kantakouzenos, who had seized the throne during a civil war.
Despite their current decline, the family still carried an air of prestige, their name etched deeply into the empire's history.
Theodore, now one of the last prominent members of his house, approached John with an air of dignity. His weathered features betrayed both wisdom and weariness, though his eyes gleamed with curiosity as they studied the young despot.
"Your Highness," Theodore said, bowing respectfully.
"Finally, we meet. Seeing you in person rather than hearing baseless rumors, I must admit, the rumors don't do you justice. You are indeed as impressive as they say."
John returned the gesture with a slight bow of his own. "Thank you for your kind words, Granduncle. I have always held the Kantakouzenos family in high regard—as family and as pillars of the empire's legacy."
Theodore's expression softened at the genuine tone in John's voice. He could see that the young prince meant what he said, even if their families' shared history had been turbulent.
As they exchanged pleasantries, John found himself intrigued by Theodore. The elder statesman exuded both pride and melancholy, the weight of his family's decline clearly visible in his demeanor.
When John shifted his attention to other members of the Kantakouzenos family, he noticed a stark contrast. Most of them seemed to carry an air of entitlement, their confidence resting more on the glories of their ancestors than on their own merit.
Beneath their polite façade, John sensed a subtle arrogance—a disguised respect that did little to hide their condescension.
He thought back to Pavlos' last bit of advice: "Earn their respect, but never let them underestimate you."
Despite their veiled slights, John remained composed, refusing to let their behavior rattle him. He treated each member with warmth and diplomacy, ensuring that they had no excuse to criticize him openly.
For Theodore, watching this exchange was a revelation. As he observed John's poise and intelligence, a flicker of admiration crossed his face—though it was accompanied by a tinge of envy.
The Kantakouzenos name, once a force to be reckoned with, had fallen into mediocrity. The younger members of his house lacked the honor and ambition that had once defined them.
But John... John was different.
As the elder statesman gazed at the young despot, he couldn't help but wonder if the fabled Purple Phoenix—symbol of rebirth—had chosen John as its vessel. There was something about the boy that seemed almost otherworldly, as though destiny itself had marked him for greatness.
"Could he be the one to lead the empire out of the ashes?" Theodore thought. "Has the divine chosen him to guide us through these troubled times?"
At a quiet corner of the grand hall, where the Palaiologos family had gathered, John approached his siblings. It had been a while since they were all in one place, and he found himself genuinely eager to reconnect with them.
His gaze first fell on Theodore II Palaiologos, his third younger brother, who had recently been appointed Despot of Morea. At only eleven years old, Theodore had taken on the responsibility of ruling a province—a feat astonishing to outsiders, though not uncommon in a world where youth often bore the weight of dynastic duty.
Surrounded by a cluster of vassals and courtiers from his Despotate, Theodore carried himself with a composure far beyond his years. Though his small stature betrayed his age, his manner of engaging with others—his clear, confident tone and thoughtful responses—hinted at the makings of a capable ruler.
John smiled faintly as he observed his brother. It seemed the boy was adapting well to his role, though John couldn't help but feel a pang of concern for the challenges Theodore would undoubtedly face.
Too young, John thought to himself. But then again, when has the empire ever waited for anyone to grow up?
His attention then shifted to another sibling, Andronikos Palaiologos, the second youngest brother. Recently elevated to the title of Despot of Thessaloniki, Andronikos stood a short distance away, engrossed in conversation with his tutor, Demetrios Laskaris Leontares.
Even at fourteen, Andronikos already exuded a quiet strength. With his tutor by his side—a man renowned for his military acumen and political insight—it was clear that Andronikos was being groomed not just as a governor but as a leader capable of navigating the turbulent waters of the empire's decline.
John watched his brothers from afar for a moment, noting the stark contrast between them. Theodore, with his precocious charm and steady confidence, already seemed at ease with his station. Andronikos, on the other hand, was reserved, his focus sharpened by the weight of the responsibility on his shoulders.
Yet both boys carried themselves with dignity, their youth not hindering their determination to uphold the family name.
Finally, John turned his gaze toward Constantine Palaiologos, the youngest of his brothers and the one who stirred the most complex emotions within him.
At only six years old, Constantine was still a child, his face round with innocence and unburdened by the grim realities that surrounded them. Yet, in Constantine, John saw more than just a boy—he saw the shadow of history.
Constantine XI, John thought, the name weighing heavily on his mind. In his previous life, he had read about this brother's tragic fate: the last emperor of Byzantium, the man who would bear witness to the empire's final collapse.
"Constantine," John said softly as he approached, his voice carrying an unusual gentleness. "My dear brother."
The young boy looked up at him, his wide eyes sparkling with curiosity.
For a moment, John hesitated, unsure how to express the storm of emotions swirling within him. A sense of melancholy lingered as he gazed into Constantine's innocent face, a face unmarked by the knowledge of what fate might hold.
John knelt slightly, bringing himself to Constantine's level. His hands rested lightly on the boy's shoulders, steadying himself as much as his brother.
"I hope that as you grow," John said, his voice low and solemn, "the empire prospers. I hope it does not end in your time, as it once did in mine."
Constantine blinked, puzzled by the weight of his brother's words. "Brother?" he asked softly, tilting his head.
John forced a smile, though his chest ached with a sorrow he couldn't explain to a child. Constantine's innocence was both a blessing and a curse—a shield against the harshness of the world, but also a reminder of how cruel that world could be.
"I only wish for your future to be brighter than ours," John said, ruffling Constantine's hair gently.
The boy smiled in return, his youthful cheer unbroken by his brother's ominous tone. But for John, the exchange left a lingering ache. If it was within his power, he would change the course of history. He would spare Constantine the cruel fate that had awaited him in the original timeline.
If the empire is destined to fall, John thought, then let it fall in my time—not his.
As the evening progressed, John continued to move through the gathering, seeking out his other siblings and cousins. The family dynamic was both comforting and chaotic, filled with the usual mix of warmth, competition, and subtle tensions.
Among them were the only two girls in their family: Helena Palaiologina and Zoe Palaiologina. Surrounded by cousins and courtiers, the sisters carried themselves with grace, though their personalities were strikingly different.
Helena, the elder of the two, had a sharp wit and a keen eye for social dynamics. Even at nineteen, three years older than John were, she seemed to have an intuitive understanding of courtly politics, often offering whispered advice to her brothers during gatherings.
Zoe, on the other hand, was quieter and more reserved. At seventeen, she lacked Helena's boldness but compensated with a kindness that endeared her to those around her.
"Helena, Zoe," John said warmly as he approached them. "You both look as radiant as ever."
Helena raised an eyebrow, smirking at her brother's flattery. "And you look far less mischievous than usual, John," she replied. "Is it the clothes? Or is because you grew? It felt like yesterday that you shenanigans around the palace caused headache to our imperial father."
Hearing that awkward phase of his, he forcibly laugh, beads of sweats formed on his temple. "Perhaps a little of both,"
Zoe smiled gracefully despite their lighthearted briefs.
As John spoke with his remaining siblings, he couldn't help but feel a sense of grounding amidst the evening's pomp and formality.
Here, in the presence of family, he finally understood what he had been missing all along: a bond.
-------
"That was... exhausting. No wonder introverts avoid gatherings, even if they have friends to go with."
John sighed heavily as he stepped out of the hall, his regal attire feeling heavier now than it had all evening. Mingling with the guests, while a necessary display of diplomacy, had drained him in a way that no physical labor ever could.
By the time he reached his chambers, he was eager to shed the ceremonial garb. As he slipped out of the ornate robes and replaced them with his simpler, comfortable pajamas, his mind wandered back to the events of the evening.
Sinking into a nearby chair, John rested his chin on his hand, his thoughts a maelstrom of reflection.
"It seems my rise is going to be far more difficult than I'd hoped," he muttered to himself.
While the ceremony had gone smoothly on the surface, the atmosphere within the hall had been far from celebratory. Beneath the polite words and courteous smiles, John had felt the currents of ambition, rivalry, and hidden agendas swirling around him.
The factions were ever-present—some staunch supporters of the emperor, others scheming to advance their own interests. Together, they created a toxic mix of intrigue and distrust, stifling any hope of unity within the court.
It had always been like this, John realized. For centuries, the Byzantine Empire had been plagued by internal divisions as much as external threats. The evening's gathering had only underscored how deeply those fractures ran.
"Idiots," he grumbled aloud, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "When will they wake up from their childish games? Do they not see that the empire is in shambles because of people like them? Do they think this is some petty competition?"
His voice echoed softly in the quiet of the room, but there was no answer—only the stillness of the night.
Fully dressed for bed, John walked over to the window and sat on its ledge, gazing up at the glittering stars above. The cool night air brushed against his face as he tried to untangle the web of frustrations in his mind.
"Then again," he murmured, "if this is how things are, I'll have to plan my moves carefully. Now that I've been thrown into the wild, there's no room for hesitation."
His thoughts turned toward his father, Manuel II.
"I don't understand him," John said, almost bitterly. "He knows his rule is being challenged by these vultures, yet he does nothing."
Manuel II was a figure John had studied extensively in his former life, though the history books had offered little to truly define him. Neither vilified nor praised, Manuel was remembered as a capable yet ultimately unremarkable ruler. His achievements had been overshadowed by the empire's decline, and his reign seemed to exist only as a prelude to its inevitable fall.
Or so the history books said.
John frowned, the weight of hindsight pressing down on him. He had learned enough since his rebirth to know that history rarely captured the full truth of a man's life.
Manuel was undoubtedly a man who valued family, but that was not always a strength. He had been forged by tragedy—forced to fight alongside his father, John V, against his own brother, Andronicus IV, during a civil war that had torn the empire apart.
Andronicus IV, John thought grimly. His uncle's name was like a specter haunting the history of his family. After a failed attempt to overthrow their father, Andronicus had ultimately succeeded in seizing the throne, imprisoning John V, and leaving the empire in disarray.
Andronicus' victory had come at a terrible cost: an alliance with the Ottomans. The "devious snake," as John bitterly labeled him, had relied on Ottoman support to claim the throne, further weakening the empire's already precarious position.
Manuel, caught in the center of it all, had learned firsthand how destructive a divided empire could be. Perhaps that was why he ruled as cautiously as he did, unwilling to stir the hornet's nest of Byzantine politics more than necessary.
But John couldn't help but feel frustrated by his father's passivity.
"Why do nothing?" he muttered. "Why allow the empire to rot from the inside while our enemies grow stronger every day?"
Manuel's attempts to mend divisions within the imperial family had borne mixed results. His reconciliation with his nephew, John VII—Andronicus IV's son—was a calculated move, one aimed at preventing further civil strife.
Yet, even then, the scars of betrayal lingered. John VII had never fully abandoned his ambitions, and his involvement in the defense of Constantinople during Bayezid's siege had only narrowly saved him from execution.
John sighed, his frustration giving way to weariness.
"This is hard," he admitted quietly.
When he was first reborn into this world, John had known it would be full of challenges. But knowing and experiencing were two different things. Living as a prince of a dying empire—watching its slow decline, the endless squabbling, the missed opportunities—was infinitely harder than he had anticipated.
He leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane, his eyes still fixed on the stars.
"This is why people prefer republics," he muttered bitterly. "At least then, no one man has to bear the weight of the entire system. Why must an emperor be so helpless? And why do these nobles, these royals, keep making everything worse instead of rebuilding what's left? They're worse than brats. At least brats eventually grow up."
A wry smile tugged at his lips, but it faded quickly. The reality was harsh, and John knew that he had little power to change it—for now, at least.
"Can I be amount to anything at the end?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
John's gaze never left the stars, their distant light offering a strange kind of solace. They were constant, untouchable, shining as they had for millennia.
For now, that was enough. Tomorrow, the stars might hold a different answer—and so would he.
PENSAMENTOS DOS CRIADORES 
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