Late into the night, as the crescent moon hung pale and silent over the blood-soaked land, the Sultan and his nobles slept soundly in their silk-lined tents. The campfires crackled quietly, guarded by drowsy sentries who leaned on their spears, lulled by the rhythm of routine.
But not all was quiet.
From the refugee pens, newly filled with Rumelian captives gathered from the shattered villages of Nikomedia, came the restless rustling of fear. As usual, those with skills in crafting or medicine were separated and marched away. The rest—young and old, men and women—were handed a rough wooden token, a symbol of their fate. Tomorrow, they would carry siege ladders and carts of rubble forward under sword point, fodder for Roman bolts and Turkish arrows alike.
