Petralba Castle, early March 1434
Dawn's light crept over the peaks of central Albania as Gjergj Kastrioti – once known in the Ottoman ranks as İskender Bey, Skanderbeg – rode up the winding path to Petralba Castle. Perched atop a rocky hill, Petralba loomed like an ancient sentinel over the olive groves and the misty Mat valley below. For years, this had been his family's stronghold, an eagle's eyrie watching over their domain, yet to Skanderbeg it felt at once familiar and strange. The castle's stone walls bore the scars of recent battles and the weathering of grief. As he neared the open gate, Skanderbeg slowed his horse. The banner of Kastrioti, a black double-headed eagle on crimson, hung limp in the still morning air above the battlements. That emblem of his lineage now seemed a solemn guardian of all he had lost and all he still hoped to reclaim. He had returned, a prodigal son to his own nest, carrying the weight of exile and expectation on his shoulders like Atlas with the world.
Inside the courtyard, a small gathering waited in hushed anticipation. Voisava, his mother, stepped forward first. The Dowager Lady of Kastrioti had aged in the years since Skanderbeg was taken as an Ottoman hostage, silver now streaked her braided hair, and fine lines of sorrow traced her once-bright eyes, yet she stood proud and unyielding. At the sight of her son, Voisava's composure trembled. Skanderbeg dismounted and fell to one knee before her, bowing his head. Voisava cupped his face with work-worn hands, her thumb gently brushing the faint scar along his jaw. The scar had faded to a pale, raised line, a healed reminder etched along his jaw, now only faintly pink and smooth beneath her gentle touch. Seeing it up close, Voisava's breath caught. "My Gjergj… my boy. They gave you scars, but God gave you back to me" she whispered, voice heavy with both anguish and relief.
Skanderbeg rose and embraced his mother. He was a head taller than she, broad-shouldered beneath a travel-stained cloak and worn tunic.
For a long moment, neither spoke. He shut his eyes, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke on her clothes, a scent that whispered of home. Voisava's shoulders shook as she held him, and he realized she was quietly weeping. Mamica, Vlajka, and Angelina, his sisters, gathered around, wrapping them both in a tangle of arms. Mamica, the youngest of the three, touched Skanderbeg's shoulder hesitantly as if unsure her warrior-brother was real. Then she too broke into sobs and buried her face against his chest. Skanderbeg felt his throat tighten; these were tears he had long forgotten how to shed. He had been trained in Ottoman courts to harden his heart, but here, within Petralba's familiar stones, he allowed himself the fragile grace of family and forgiveness.
A rumble of greeting came from nearby. Old Llesh, the family's arms-bearer and one-time swordmaster to Skanderbeg and his brothers, stood at respectful attention with a spearman's discipline. His craggy face twitched as if undecided whether to smile or cry. In his hands he held Gjon Kastrioti's sword, sheathed in cracked leather. At the sight of it, Skanderbeg gently released his sisters and moved toward Llesh. The old retainer thumped a fist to his breast in salute, but Skanderbeg instead grasped him by the shoulders. Llesh's voice cracked as he spoke: "Welcome home, Zotëri. We kept it safe for you… as your father would have wished." He extended the sword with reverence. Skanderbeg's chest constricted. This blade had been his father's companion through countless skirmishes; now Gjon was gone, fallen in battle against the Ottomans last year, and the weapon passed to the son who had not been there. Skanderbeg swallowed hard and took the sword. Its weight was heavy, cold steel and cold memory. For an instant he stood utterly still, feeling the heft of his father's legacy settle in his hand.
Behind Llesh, Skanderbeg's cousin Leka hovered, still holding the reins of their lathered horses. Leka had ridden with him through the winter nights out of Ottoman lands, sharing every peril on the road. Now the younger man flashed a grin, fatigue etched under his eyes, clearly relieved to have reached sanctuary. Skanderbeg returned a faint smile. He would have words with Leka soon, thanks to give, plans to make, but those could wait a moment longer.
Lastly, Father Nikolla, Petralba's village priest, stepped forward in his threadbare cassock. In one hand he gripped a wooden cross, and with the other he traced the sign of the cross in the air, blessing Skanderbeg. "God has delivered you back to us, Gjergj," the old priest intoned, voice trembling with emotion. "Praise be for your safe return, and may He grant you purpose for the trials you have endured." Nikolla's gaze lingered on Skanderbeg's scar and travel-worn state. "Your mother has prayed for this day without ceasing." The priest's kind eyes glistened as he added softly, "Your father looks down proudly today, I am sure." At that, Skanderbeg's composure nearly broke. He clenched his jaw, the very muscles tugging at the scar on his face, and nodded in gratitude.
They led him inside the castle keep. The halls of Petralba were cool and dim, lit by narrow arrow-slit windows and a few flickering torches. Dust motes swirled in beams of morning sun. Skanderbeg paused on the threshold of the great hall. Here his father Gjon had held court with their Albanian warlord allies, planned defenses, and shared the meager harvests with his people in lean years. Now Gjon's high-backed chair at the center was conspicuously empty. A solemn silence fell upon the group as they all regarded that chair draped in black cloth. Skanderbeg's mother touched his arm gently. "He waited for you," Voisava said in a hushed tone. "He fought so hard… he believed you would return to us." Her voice caught, and she did not finish the thought, that Gjon had gone to his grave not knowing if his son would ever come home or remain forever an Ottoman pawn.
Skanderbeg lowered his head. Guilt and sorrow warred within him. He had been absent when his father fell in battle against the Sultan's forces the previous year; he had been hundreds of miles away, wearing the enemy's uniform, bound by duty and oath to the very empire that was crushing his homeland. The knowledge was a poison in his heart. "I should have been here," he murmured, voice rough. "Maybe… maybe it would be Father welcoming me home, not…" He trailed off, unable to voice that if he had defected sooner, Gjon might be alive. His mother squeezed his hand with surprising strength. "It was beyond your power, my son. They took you from us as a boy. None here blame you." Around them, his sisters nodded earnestly through their tears. Father Nikolla added, "Each of us walks a path written by God. Yours took you far, but brought you back in His time, Gjergj. Take heart, you are home now, and we shall redeem what was lost." There was a quiet fervor in the priest's words, a hint of the redemptive tone Skanderbeg himself yearned to believe.
He allowed them to ease him into a carved wooden chair near the hearth. A servant hurried in with a jug of watered wine and bread. As Skanderbeg sat, Mamica fussed over him, brushing dust from his shoulders. Vlajka pressed a cup into his hand. The wine was tart and cool on his tongue, grounding him after the emotional rush. Leka took a seat by the hearth, stretching his legs with a groan of exhaustion. Old Llesh hovered nearby, clearly wanting to remain at Skanderbeg's side like a guard at post. The tension and adrenaline of their escape finally ebbed in the safety of these walls.
For a time, the family simply stayed close, as if reassuring themselves he would not vanish again. Soft questions came between sniffles and smiles: Was the journey difficult? How long since you left the Turks? Do you have any injuries besides… a cautious gesture to his jaw. Skanderbeg answered plainly, sparing them the harsher details. Yes, the journey was hard, mostly by night to avoid Ottoman patrols; yes, he and Leka posed as mercenaries and even as merchant guards at times to slip through checkpoints. As for injuries, he assured them the scar was old news, already healed. This last claim he made lightly, but Voisava did not miss the way her son gingerly rolled his jaw or how a hand drifted to it as he spoke.
At length, Father Nikolla cleared his throat. "That mark… if it is not too painful to recall, how did it happen?" The family fell silent, all eyes turning to Skanderbeg's scar. In the crackling quiet of the hearth, Skanderbeg felt the past stir, memories of gunpowder, screams, and a searing pain. His thumb absently traced the ridged scar tissue. "It was… at Domokos," he said quietly. The unfamiliar name hung in the air. Leka's face darkened a shade at the mention; he clearly remembered it too. "Domokos?" Mamica repeated. "Where is that?" Skanderbeg managed a faint half-smile. "A long way from here, mother. A battlefield in Greece… and a day I shall not soon forget."
He blinked and returned to the present. The hall of Petralba was silent, his family hanging on his every word. At some point he had begun speaking aloud, haltingly describing the flashback: the battle's carnage, the musket shot that felled him. His mother's hand was pressed to her mouth, eyes wide with horror; Mamica was quietly weeping again; Leka stared into the fire, jaw clenched as the memories replayed for him as well. Father Nikolla crossed himself. "God was merciful to spare you," the old priest said softly. Skanderbeg exhaled, realizing only now that his hands were trembling and cold sweat beaded on his brow. He drained the rest of the wine in his cup. "Merciful indeed," he rasped. "Had that ball struck a finger's width higher, I would have no lower face… or head." He tried to inject a note of dark humor, but no one smiled. The weight of what he'd survived, and what it meant, lay on them all.
Voisava moved to sit beside him. Gently, she laid his father's sword across Skanderbeg's knees and folded his hands over it. "You were saved for a reason, Gjergj," she said, eyes shining. "We've all heard the tidings. Word travels even to our hills – in Hungary, Emperor Sigismund is gathering an army for a great crusade. Your father believed these were signs" She paused, voice thick with emotion. "He believed you would be the one to lead us."
Skanderbeg closed his eyes. Lead us. Was he ready to bear that weight? The Ottomans he had served would brand him a traitor; if captured, death would be the least of his worries. And yet… he had returned, carrying not just a sword but also the cumulative knowledge of Ottoman warcraft, and a fire in his heart stoked by years of longing for home. His family's expectant faces told him that they were ready to follow, to believe.
He stood slowly, lifting Gjon's sword."I cannot change the past," Skanderbeg said, voice low but gaining strength, "but by God, I will fight for our future." His gaze roamed over each of them, his mother and sisters, Leka, Old Llesh, and the priest. These were the people he loved, the people he would kill or die to protect. "Father fell defending our land. Stanisha…" he faltered at his brother's name "Stanisha lost his way and now stands with the enemy. But I am here now. We are here." He looked to Leka, who nodded firmly. "We will unite with our countrymen, and we will make the Sultan pay for every bit of ground he has taken." The gathered family murmured assent, soft but fervent. In that moment, Skanderbeg's solemn figure with sword in hand reminded Father Nikolla of St. Michael the Archangel poised to smite the dragon. A single tear traced down Voisava's cheek as she whispered, "Your father's spirit lives in you, Gjergj."
Skanderbeg inclined his head, accepting both the burden and the comfort of her words. "There is much to do," he said, sheathing the sword. "But first, I must meet with our allies. War looms, and we cannot stand alone." He exchanged a knowing look with Leka. Skanderbeg knew of Gjergj Arianiti's victories and the uprisings that were toppling Ottoman garrisons. Now he had to join that fight openly. "Rest, my son," Voisava urged gently, placing a hand on his arm. "You look exhausted. There will be time to plan."
Council at Danjë, Northern Albania – April 1434
A month later, under the grey light of a drizzling April morning, Skanderbeg found himself in the drafty great hall of Danjë Castle (Dagnum) amidst a gathering of Albania's rebel leaders. The scene was markedly different from the intimate reunion at Petralba, here was a congress of hardened warlords and nobles, men who had kept Albania's rebellion strong these past years. The hall's high rafters bore the soot of countless fires, and the stone floor was uneven beneath Skanderbeg's boots. Despite the damp chill, the air crackled with tension and purpose.
Skanderbeg stood near a long oak table scarred by sword marks and candle burns. Around it, figures both familiar and new argued in low, urgent tones. To his left was Gjergj Arianiti, a tall, grizzled chieftain in his fifties whose hawkish profile and keen eyes exuded confidence. Arianiti had been leading the revolt with notable success, it was he who had defeated the Ottoman Ishak Bey in a battle not long ago. Next to him, gesturing animatedly, was Andrea Thopia, lord of Durres, clad in a quilted jacket of fine make. Thopia's noble lineage showed in his refined speech, though he had a wolfish air that suggested cunning under the polish. On Skanderbeg's right stood Nicholas Dukagjini, the host of this meeting and liberator of Danjë. White-haired but broad-shouldered, Dukagjini leaned on the pommel of his sheathed sword as if it were a walking stick. He bore a noticeable limp, a reminder of an old wound, yet his presence was imposing. By the smoky hearth, quietly apart, lounged Depë Zenebishi, the southern warlord who had retaken Gjirokastër. Depë's scarred arms were crossed over his chest; he watched the others with a skeptical frown, a man more comfortable with action than council talk. And at the head of the table, facing the assembly, was a guest: Fruzhin of Bulgaria. Fruzhin, a middle-aged exile prince with a neatly trimmed beard, wore a travel-stained velvet tunic and a heavy cloak clasped with the Sigismundcrest, a clear sign of his ties to the Hungarian court.
The murmurs halted as Skanderbeg took his place at the table. Some had greeted him curtly upon arrival, nods of respect for Gjon's son tempered by curiosity or wariness about this former Ottoman officer in their midst. Arianiti, however, had clasped Skanderbeg's forearm warmly. "Gjergj Kastrioti," he had said, using Skanderbeg's Christian name with emphasis, "your return is Albania's good fortune. Your father was a friend to my house. I trust you'll honor his memory among us." Skanderbeg replied simply, "I shall do my utmost, Lord Arianiti." That seemed to satisfy the older man, who gave a rare smile. Depë Zenebishi merely grunted a greeting, eyeing Skanderbeg up and down as if sizing up a potential rival. Thopia offered polite pleasantries. Dukagjini was brusque but not unfriendly: "Well met, Skanderbeg. Glad to have your sword on our side now." Skanderbeg inclined his head, aware that trust would be earned in deeds, not words.
Now all fell silent as Fruzhin of Bulgaria cleared his throat. Rain pattered against narrow windows, a reminder of the secrecy under which this council convened. Fruzhin unfurled a damp parchment bearing the wax seal of King Sigismund, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Hungary. "Lords of Albania," Fruzhin began in a measured tone, "I bring you greetings and secret words from His Imperial Majesty Sigismund." At that name, a few men exchanged glances. Some lips curved in anticipation; others remained stern. Fruzhin continued, "The time of decision draws near. A great crusade is gathering to strike at the Turk."
Skanderbeg felt the mood shift palpably. Men who had been slouching straightened their backs; a few stepped closer to hear every syllable. Fruzhin's dark eyes flicked across the assembly, gauging reactions. "Emperor Sigismund has pledged to raise thirty thousand soldiers under the Cross. Even now, knights from Hungary, Germany, Poland, and beyond muster to march south. By God's grace, the Pope and the princes of Christendom have heeded the call." Arianiti's hand curled into a fist atop the table, knuckles white, whether in excitement or restraint was hard to tell. Andrea Thopia murmured, "So it's true… a crusade at last," as if daring to confirm a long-held hope.