Mid-March brought pale light and cold air to Philippopolis, where the thaw had turned the streets to brown mud and left water standing in the ruts. Constantine's room was still cold even in late morning, and a draft slipped under his collar as he sat on a low stool with his armor hanging open, its weight resting partly on his shoulders and partly against the chair-back. His gloves lay on the table beside a wax seal and a half-finished list George had made him sign before dawn. The table was a door laid across barrels, the sort of furniture the army improvised wherever it stopped.
In his hands, the letter felt too delicate for the room. The paper was good—Glarentza's mills had learned their craft—and the ink was dark and steady in Katarina's disciplined hand.
He read it once too quickly, then went back to the beginning, where Katarina wrote in plain terms that Zoe had been ill during the winter but had lived. The restraint of it struck him harder than any plea would have, and he had to ease his grip on the paper before he bent it.
She could sit up on her own now, and he pictured her on a rug, wavering with concentration and stubbornly holding herself upright. In the cold room, with its smell of damp lime and smoke, he felt heat rise behind his eyes. Two teeth had come through as well; his mouth moved toward a smile and then stopped, because he had not been there to see them.
She has your eyes.
"My eyes," he said under his breath. For a moment it felt strange to hear it, but the feeling passed. After eight years, the face was his.
She had begun to make sounds. He could picture Katarina leaning over the child, answering those noises as if conversation had already begun, shaping them patiently into something more, while he was months away counting powder, measuring roads, and burying men.
The rest of the letter was made up of the sort of details Katarina always chose. She wrote about the library and the books that had carried her through the cold months, about the house, the servants, the repairs, and the herbs in the garden that had survived the frost. She said she missed him, but without pleading.
Then came the last line, written in the same steady hand as all the rest:
All is as it should be.
That was the line that stayed with him. Not because it reassured him, but because it told him that she had endured the winter, kept the household in order, and kept their daughter alive without him there.
Before he knew what he was doing, he had tightened his hand around the paper until it crackled softly and bent at the edges beneath his thumb. He loosened his grip at once and looked down at his fingers.
For a few seconds the room seemed to empty. The hammering outside, the shouted orders, even the bray of an animal receded.
"All is as it should be," he said again, and the words tasted bitter. She had done what needed doing there, while he had done what needed doing here. That did not make the distance easier to bear.
He folded the letter carefully. As he had expected, a sprig of mint was pressed between the pages, its color dulled by the journey but its scent still sharp in the damp room.
He lifted it to his nose and thought at once of the garden, of Katarina wrapping herbs in cloth, and of the moment before he left when she had reached up and straightened the cross on his chest with steady hands and no fuss. For a moment the air smelled less of mud and damp than of home.
He closed his eyes until the feeling passed. Then he tucked the mint back into the fold of the letter, slid it inside his breast beneath leather and mail, and fastened his armor properly. The familiar weight settled over him again.
He stood, and the chair scraped behind him.
Outside, the campaign was already moving without him.
The riverbank was busy with men, wagons, and animals. The Maritsa was high with thaw water, and the air smelled of wet earth, reeds, and pitch. The ferries were already in place, held by thick lines and hammered stakes, the same crossing system they had used in November. Drakos cannon that had spent the winter under oilcloth were being rolled onto rafts while wheels sank into the mud and had to be levered free again. Oxen strained, men shouted, and the line moved forward a few feet at a time.
Constantine walked along it with two guards close behind him and felt his boots sink with each step. The thaw had softened the ground, but only enough to turn the old frozen ruts into mud.
A veteran officer named Leon fell into step beside him. His face was scarred, and an old break had left his nose crooked. He saluted with the ease of a man who had been in service long before Constantine came to the throne.
"Majesty," Leon said, a crooked grin pulling at one side of his mouth. "If you want to see a miracle, look there."
He nodded toward a raft where a cannon carriage, half-sunk in mud, was being pushed forward a little at a time by men with poles.
"It moves," Leon said, as if that alone proved God's mercy.
"It moves because men refuse to let it die," Constantine answered.
Leon's grin widened. "Aye. That too."
Leon was staying behind. Philippopolis was to keep a garrison through the spring and summer to protect the supply road back to Sofia and the pass beyond. It was necessary work, but not the kind men boasted about: guarding stores, keeping discipline, and dealing with whatever raids came after dark.
"You'll have roofs," Constantine said, meaning it as consolation.
Leon shrugged. "Better than open ground." He hesitated, then added, "I'll hold it."
"I know," Constantine said. He clasped Leon's forearm, the gesture brief and hard, and moved on.
The men he passed looked less worn than they had in December. Spring helped, even when it came cold and wet. The army was moving again, and that alone lifted spirits. As he went by, he heard the same talk from one group to the next: Edirne, the road ahead, whether the Turks were moving, whether they would run. The mood was hopeful, but cautious.
Constantine walked toward the largest tent near the river. It was more pavilion than field tent, with its ropes drawn tight and two weary clerks standing guard at the entrance.
Inside, George sat hunched over a stack of reports, stylus moving while he mouthed figures to himself. Three officers waited nearby with wax tablets in hand. The air smelled of ink, damp wool, and vinegar, someone's attempt to keep the mold down.
"George," Constantine said.
George's hand kept moving for another heartbeat before he finished the line and looked up. His eyes took a moment to focus.
"Majesty," he said, his voice rough from too little sleep.
"How are we doing?" Constantine asked.
George blinked once, then ran his stylus down the figures. "We're set," he said. "We have food and fodder. The Sofia train came in mostly intact, two barrels spoiled, one axle cracked." He hesitated. "Powder is… adequate."
"That word again," Constantine said.
George's mouth twitched, a humorless half-smile. "It's never enough."
"Niketas?" Constantine asked.
George tapped a line with his stylus. "He did well. He fell a little short of the goal, but not by much. I'd praise him for it if praise made powder."
Constantine nodded. "We're used to counting every ounce."
"And still losing some to rain, mishandling, and careless use," George murmured. Then he looked up from the figures. "How are Katarina and Zoe?"
Constantine felt the letter against his chest beneath the armor. The mint had nearly lost its scent, but in the warmth under the mail he could still catch it.
"They're well," he said. The words came out too stiff, and he tried again, more quietly. "Zoe was ill. She lived." His throat tightened, but he kept his face steady. "She can sit up on her own now. She has two teeth. She's starting to make sounds."
George's expression softened with understanding. "Good," he said. "That's good."
Constantine paused before speaking again. "I'll miss her first word," he said. "I'll miss the first time she walks."
George exhaled through his nose. Before he could answer, the tent flap opened and an officer stepped in, breathless from the cold.
"Majesty," the man said, his breath misting in the cold air of the tent. "General Andreas requests you in the war tent. There are new scout reports."
Constantine gave George a brief nod and stepped out.
The war tent stood farther back from the river on slightly higher ground, where the mud was less deep. Inside, Andreas was bent over a map weighted down with stones, his cloak thrown back and both hands braced on the table. Thomas stood nearby, still a little stiff in the left shoulder when he shifted. Grgur leaned against a support post, watching. Fruzhin sat with a cup in hand, listening closely.
They all turned when Constantine entered.
A scout officer stepped forward, saluted, and spoke at once.
"Majesty. No sign of enemy movement as far as the village of Manole. The local population says they haven't seen Ottoman riders or larger parties for a week."
Andreas's jaw tightened. "They've been quiet since we started preparing to move."
Thomas snorted. "Quiet doesn't mean they're gone."
"No," Constantine said. He looked down at the map and followed the road southeast toward Edirne. Beneath his armor, he could feel the letter against his chest.
"We stay with the plan," he said. "Shorter marches, proper fortifications every night, and slower progress if that's what it takes." He looked up at the others. "Better to reach Edirne late than walk into it blind."
Andreas nodded once, tired but in agreement. Grgur's mouth tightened; a slower march meant more strain on supplies and on the men. Fruzhin stayed quiet, but Constantine could see that he was already weighing what a move on Edirne might mean for his standing.
"We move as planned," Constantine said.
They reached Manole the next evening. The village met them warily, as villages on that road had learned to do when armed men arrived.
It had about twenty households, mostly Bulgarian, with a few Greek families still speaking the language at home. Smoke rose from low chimneys. Dogs barked once, then fell silent. Children watched from the doorways until their mothers pulled them back.
The local priest met Constantine at the edge of the square, beard grey and hands red from cold and work. His Greek was careful and book-learned, the sort learned from church books rather than daily use.
Constantine dismounted, let the men see his face, and handed the priest a book wrapped in cloth.
"A Bible," he said. "Greek."
The priest unfolded the cloth with something close to reverence. When he saw the printed pages, his expression changed. The black lines were clean and even, and for a moment he held the book as if he were afraid to damage it.
The priest's lips trembled. "Basileus," he said in Greek, voice thick. "May God remember you."
"Remember your people first," Constantine replied, and it came out harsher than he intended. He softened it by touching the man's shoulder. "Keep them steady."
Behind and to the side, Fruzhin had already drifted toward a cluster of Bulgarian villagers. His Bulgarian flowed warmly, the words shaped to fit hunger and hope. Constantine heard a cheer rise, small at first, then more confident.
He saw it from the corner of his eye and didn't turn. "Andreas," he said softly, as if speaking about ditches, "keep an ear on Lord Fruzhin's talk tonight. I want to know what promises he makes in my name."
The camp went up quickly around Manole. Men dug ditches at the mouths of the lanes, dragged wagons into barricades, and hammered in stakes while the fires were kept low. Spring had eased the cold, but not the danger.
By dawn, they were gone again. Manole was quiet after the army left. In the square, a broad printed notice had been nailed to a post where everyone would see it: the black double-headed eagle, the cross, and the words Ieros Skopos.
Three days later, they reached Chirpan. It was larger, with perhaps sixty or seventy households and fields behind it. More people came out to watch as the army approached. The Orthodox priest here was younger than the one at Manole and less afraid. He looked relieved when he greeted Constantine.
"The Turks have left," he said, speaking in Greek. "The colonists. They packed in the night. They took what they could carry and ran south."
Constantine rode past a row of houses with half-open doors and hearths gone cold in haste. A child's wooden bowl lay overturned in the mud, and a broken string of beads still hung from a nail. The people had left quickly.
He called Andreas and George to him at the edge of the village, where the ground was a little higher and drier.
"We stay here a full day," Constantine said. "We build proper works and leave a permanent garrison strong enough to keep the road clear."
George began to speak, but Constantine cut him off. "We secure the supply route now, or we go hungry later."
Andreas nodded at once. "We'll set the lines."
"And send the scouts farther out," Constantine added. "I want eyes on every road. We need to know where they are, where they are not, and what they're preparing."
The orders went out. Men moved as if the words had become ropes tied to their bodies: spades lifted, axes bit, stakes were driven. Fortification was slow work, and it saved lives more quietly than any victory.
Constantine walked alone for a moment to the edge of the fields. Somewhere, a lark started to sing, then fell quiet.
Under his armor, against his skin, the folded letter pressed with each breath. If he tried, he could almost imagine the mint again.
"All is as it should be," Katarina had written.
He looked east toward Edirne and felt the old anger return.
Then he turned back to the men digging. Whatever he felt, the work still had to be done.