Remy knew from the start that lingering in Belgrade could not last. Staying in one place rarely suited the manner in which they operated, but here, under the walls of a fortress whose lord watched every shadow, remaining any longer bordered on folly. The Ban of Belgrade had accepted their stated reasons for travel, yes, but the acceptance came wrapped in the thin lace of paranoia. Remy could hardly blame him. The fault lay, undeniably, with himself. Or rather, with the “testing” of weapons he had done outside the city, which had apparently stirred rumors enough to make the garrison uneasy.

  He had ridden to the fortress personally to settle the matter, the morning after the final test. The Ban received him in a chamber and Remy found himself explaining at length how he had fired his handgonne, the crude barrel on a stick rather than some fantastical new weapon the garrison insisted they believe it to be. He had spoken plainly, assured the Ban of the simplicity of the device, demonstrated the wooden rod he had used, and calmly dismissed the stories. The Ban, for all his suspicions, was not an unwise man. He listened, asked his questions, and grudgingly accepted the explanation. But the tension in his shoulders never eased.

  After that affair, the news of Ottoman scouts sighted along the Morava road reached them. Whispers at first. Then firm statements from travelers who had come north in haste. It was not hard to see the pattern. A small company of mounted men, armored, well supplied, moving southward, any commander with sense would pay attention. The Ban certainly did.

  And Remy, weighing all these things together, understood what they must do.

  They adjusted their route. Quietly. Without drawing more curiosity than necessary. And so, early in the morning before the fortress fully stirred, they left Belgrade behind, riding through the mist that clung to the Danube’s banks. Their first stop was Grocka, a small, modest place clinging to the river road. Then southward, through stretches of vineyards and fallow fields, until the colossal bulk of Smederevo rose before them.

  Smederevo Fortress was young, proud, and impossibly vast. Its limestone walls shone as though carved only yesterday, catching the sun in broad, pale planes. Standing before it, Remy could not help but admire the precision of the stonework, the calculated angles of its towers, and the sheer ambition of the Despot who had ordered its building.

  At the gate, the Despot’s tollmaster stopped them. Polite, yes. But firm in the way officials grow firm when coin is involved.

  “The roads do not repair themselves,” the man said, with the tone of someone who had delivered this line a thousand times. He held out his narrow ledger, quill poised, waiting for the number of horses to be taxed.

  Remy handed him the letter from the Archbishop of Esztergom. The tollmaster read the seal, frowned, then read the words twice, lips moving carefully.

  He closed the ledger. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “the roads… mostly do not repair themselves. Best of luck to you all.”

  From Smederevo they rode southward into the Morava Valley. The landscape narrowed into long ribbons between low hills, the road coiling along the river like a wary cat. They passed through the valley with caution, watching every ridge line, every patch of woodland that might hide scouts or bandits or worse.

  Then Jagodina. Then Para?in. Then Aleksinac.

  And at last Ni?.

  Ni? was not a city so much as a meeting of worlds. A living crossroads. East and West pressed together in its markets like strangers forced to share a single cup. Greek merchants argued in sweeping gestures and musical tones. Bulgarians haggled with hands as loud as their voices. A few Turks patrolled near the bridge, silent, confident, careful with their steps in foreign streets.

  It was in Ni? that Remy heard the muezzin for the first time since coming to this time and place. The call rose above the houses with an eerie, trembling beauty, a voice stretched into something more than human song.

  The Turks saw their company at once. Knights, armed and mounted, moving with purpose. And the Turks, being no fools, kept their distance. They watched, whispered among themselves, and Remy could almost see the message forming in their eyes. Send a word. These men go east.

  Markets sold coarse cloth, brined cheeses, Balkan iron tools whose edges spoke of stubborn mountain ore. The garrison here, those who guarded the bridge and the marketplaces, spoke Bulgarian. Remy conversed with them briefly, though only as much as necessary. There was little time to inquire more deeply, and even less will to expose themselves to unnecessary curiosity.

  They had shoes reset on the horses. Bought provisions. Repaired a few leather straps and reins worn by the long road. Ni? was the gateway to the Balkan passes and it hummed with travelers preparing to vanish into mountains.

  It was here that Sir Gaston met them, five men-at-arms who had served in France’s long wars. Veterans, weathered down to bone and scar. When they saw Remy’s party, with Jehan, with Aldred, with the squires, with the wagons and supplies, they were quick to approach.

  Men who had once known purpose often sought it again.

  “Let them join us,” Sir Gaston said later, after the introductions. “They would watch over the ones who cannot fight. Yes, they bear arms. Yes, you’ve provided them with enough protection. But in these lands…” He glanced toward the road that led into the mountains. “In these lands, faith alone won’t keep a man alive. You said it yourself: God helps those who help themselves. And in this case, we must help ourselves.”

  Remy considered it long into the evening.

  To ease his concerns, he spoke with the veterans personally. What he found surprised him. Some had fought in the same campaigns he had, marching under banners he remembered with equal parts pride and bitterness. Most knew Sir Gaston by name or reputation. And all five agreed, without hesitation, that if they followed anyone on this uncertain path, it would be Sir Gaston.

  That was the truth of their little company.

  They followed Gaston.

  Not him.

  Remy understood this, and it did not trouble him. He was “the leader,” yes, but the decisions that mattered, the ones that guided thirty armed men across the shifting borders of Christendom and the frontier of the Sultan’s lands, rested more often in Sir Gaston’s hands. Sir Gaston had the experience. The authority. The confidence that men recognized instinctively and moved toward without thinking.

  Remy did not begrudge him that.

  He had no desire to command hearts or mold loyalties. He had no hunger for authority. What he needed was quiet, steady progress toward the Holy Land. And if Gaston was the one who could steer this growing company without fracturing it, then Remy would gladly let him.

  For these men, these thirty souls, carried their own hopes and dreams of pilgrimage. Their reasons were varied. Some sought absolution. Some sought glory. Some sought for coins. Some sought simply a place to go that was not the one they had left. But all of them, in their own way, tethered their aspirations to Sir Gaston’s steady presence.

  Remy saw it.

  Accepted it.

  And allowed it to be so.

  Leadership was a burden. One he could bear when he must, but never one he sought. And Sir Gaston carried it naturally, almost carelessly, as though it had always belonged to him.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  And Remy, riding southward through Ni? with the road narrowing into the mountain passes ahead, felt relief.

  Crossing the Dragoman Pass brought Remy and the company to their first true Ottoman checkpoint. The road narrowed there, shouldered on one side by a rising wall of rock, and on the other by a slope scattered with scrub pine and low thorn. The checkpoint stood in the narrowest portion of wooden barriers reinforced with rough-cut beams, a makeshift palisade, and half a dozen soldiers wearing the layered armor of Rumelia’s frontier troops. It was not imposing, not truly, but it held a quiet weight. A weight that said the men there had authority enough to cause trouble, should they wish it.

  The officer stepped forward, a calm man, grey around the temples, with eyes that reminded Remy of winter water. Cold, still, patient. He took one long look at their company, counted horses, scrutinized armor, assessed the quality of steel strapped to saddles, and only then spoke. His voice was flat, practiced, and without hostility. The tone of a man who had repeated these words too many times to mean them anymore.

  He asked for ak?e. Then asked questions. Many.

  When Remy told him he was from France, the man gave a thin smile, mechanical and without warmth, the kind offered when politeness was mandated but not desired. His gaze shifted briefly to Sir Gaston, to Jehan, to the others, weighing them with a soldier’s habitual caution.

  Before he could ask more, Remy spoke to him in his own language. The officer’s head tilted slightly, and the soldiers behind him fell still, surprised. Remy reached into the pack he kept closest and carefully drew out the folded parchment wrapped in waxed linen.

  “This,” he said, “is an amān from Muhammad the Ninth of Granada.”

  The officer’s brows rose. He took the letter gingerly, as though it were something that might crumble or burn. He broke the tie, opened it, and read it slowly, tracing each line with his thumb.

  “You are musta?min?” he asked eventually, looking up. “How has this come to be?”

  Remy met his gaze evenly. “I am a good physician. Do you not see why these men offer their protection?”

  The officer studied him for another long moment. There was no admiration in his expression, no skepticism either, simply calculation. Understanding, or something near it, passed behind his eyes.

  “I understand,” he said at last. “But you must still pay.”

  Remy tppl the small leather pouch from his pack, selected the precise number of ak?e required, and dropped them into the waiting hand of the officer’s young servant. The boy nodded sharply and stepped back.

  “This will do,” the officer said. “I will… tell them of this.”

  Remy inclined his head. “Bārakallāhu fīk.”

  The officer blinked at that, faintly taken aback by the blessing, but he returned it with a curt nod. He stepped aside and signaled his men to lower the barrier.

  The rest of Remy’s company exhaled almost in unison, the unspoken relief passing through them like a loose breeze. No one had reached for their swords, but the tension had been there, tight in shoulders, in reins held too short, in the careful breathing of men waiting for something to go wrong.

  Once they had passed beyond the checkpoint and the road widened again, Sir Gaston urged his horse closer to Remy’s side.

  “You know the Ruler of Granada?” Gaston asked, keeping his voice low.

  Remy kept his eyes on the trail ahead. “I was a messenger. A friend of his suffered an illness. I spoke with his physicians, and together we concocted the medicine that saved the man. He granted me the amān when I asked.”

  Gaston made a low sound in his throat, as though unsure whether to be impressed or cautious. “How many men have you spoken to? How many lands have you ridden through to gather such things?”

  “I have time, Sir Gaston,” Remy said sincerely.

  And he meant it. Every word. Time had been his greatest ally and his constant companion in this era. Time to ride alone when he wanted it. Time to disappear across leagues of land with Morgan beneath him. Morgan, who could pace himself better than most horses. Morgan, who did not tire easily, who understood the rhythm Remy preferred, eating from the saddle, sleeping in movement, conserving strength for what mattered.

  “It is through this,” Remy continued, “that I earned many favors in Toledo. And in Roma.”

  Gaston gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Hmm. You have always been resourceful. It does not surprise me.” Then, after a pause, “Ah. Can you truly not go back home and rule?”

  Remy stiffened slightly, though his expression gave nothing away.

  “I will not have such traitorous thoughts, Sir,” he said quietly. “When I left France, I made an oath with my cousin. I would not think of France or its throne. And I would not aid France, and its people openly.”

  Gaston frowned. “I understand the first. But why, in God’s name, would you oath yourself never to aid France or its people?”

  “Because doing so,” Remy answered, “would put me in the eyes of many. And I do not wish for my name to spread. I am but a humble knight named Remy now.”

  Gaston squinted at him. “I see. That is why you cling to such a name, then.” He paused. “A hundred pardons, but a false name is unbefitting of a man like yourself.”

  “You have many thoughts about this, I see.”

  “I have,” Gaston said frankly. “You are a man of many talents, Sir Valois. It is truly a shame.”

  Remy’s jaw tightened by a hair, but he did not interrupt.

  “But your greatest flaw,” Gaston continued, “is your fear of taking on great responsibility. As if doing so would cause you pain.” He shook his head. “I do not understand this. And I doubt I ever will.”

  Remy said nothing.

  “Your actions,” Gaston said, “are those of a saint at times. But sometimes” his voice turned softer “sometimes they are the actions of a coward.”

  Remy did not refute it.

  He did not need to. Gaston’s words landed without force, without malice. They were simply an observation. A truth spoken aloud by a man who had seen too many leaders flee from crowns they never wanted, and too many fools run toward them.

  They rode on, the Dragoman Pass behind them, its shadows stretching like long fingers across the road. The land opened into a wide basin where the wind carried the scent of wild thyme and distant smoke. The faint ringing of bells from a shepherd’s flock drifted across the hills. The sky above them stretched vast and pale, cloudless except for thin streaks of white that clung to the mountains’ shoulders.

  But Remy’s thoughts stayed fixed on Gaston’s words.

  The fear of responsibility.

  He did not think it was fear. Fear implied uncertainty, a hesitation born from doubt. What Remy felt instead was knowledge. The certainty of what responsibility could demand. He had seen too many rulers choke beneath expectations they could not meet. Too many kingdoms bled dry because a crown weighed more than a skull could bear.

  His cousin had understood. France had needed a king who desired power. Remy did not. Could not. And so he had gone, leaving his name behind like a discarded cloak, carrying only the skills and belongings he could use to aid without being seen.

  Still, Gaston’s words echoed.

  Saint or coward.

  Perhaps both. Or neither. Perhaps some strange mixture that had no proper name.

  The company slowed their pace as the path dipped toward a narrow bridge. Jehan signaled for the rest to stay close. Sir Aldred took a quiet count of the men behind them. The five newcomers, the veterans from France, rode near Gaston, speaking in low voices, recounting memories of campaigns fought under a sun that had felt warmer than this one.

  Remy guided Morgan forward, letting the destrier choose his own footing along the stones.

  If Gaston wished him to be more than he was, he could not grant it. Sir Gaston did not understand. Most never did. Responsibility was not heavy because of duty. It was heavy because once a man accepted it, there was no path back to solitude.

  And solitude had been Remy’s salvation more times than he could count. But beyond that, the truth of it all, he does not wish to change the future in any way possible.

  He lifted a hand absently and stroked Morgan’s neck. The destrier flicked an ear, steady as ever. A companion who required no explanations, no confessions, no names. Only direction.

  Behind him, the men continued to speak, unaware of the path Remy’s thoughts had taken. They rode deeper into Ottoman lands, into mountains and valleys where the wrong word could cost a life and where the right ally could grant safe passage for leagues. Remy’s amān had opened the way for now, but favor was a fragile thing, and Ottoman frontiers were full of men who sometimes asked questions no parchment could silence. Rare, if they even do so.

  Still, they rode on.