They rode straight to Sofia without lingering on the road. The land funneled them there whether they wished it or not, valleys narrowing, paths converging like tributaries feeding a single basin. Remy felt it even before the walls came into view, the pressure of movement, of trade, of men being pulled toward one place because the world had decided it was useful.

  Sofia announced itself with sound before stone. Voices layered over one another, carts rattling, animals protesting, metal striking metal, calls shouted in three languages at once. A noisy hive, exactly as he had expected. Purposeful chaos, not the wild disorder of a camp, but the constant churn of a city that knew it mattered.

  At the gate, Remy dismounted and paid the city tax without argument. Coins passed hands. A Greek scribe sat at a small table scarred by ink and knife marks, reed pen scratching steadily as he recorded names, numbers, horses. The man spoke as he wrote, his Greek accented by years of speaking Bulgarian and Turkish in equal measure.

  “The Turks govern,” the scribe said casually, eyes never leaving the parchment. “The Bulgarians labor. And the Greeks count the money.”

  Remy almost smiled. He did not. He had learned long ago that such truths were better acknowledged silently. He nodded once and waited while the ink dried.

  Because of the letter, because of the amān folded and kept close to Remy’s person, the guards waved them through with more patience than curiosity. There were stares, of course. Armored knights drew attention anywhere, but Remy and Gaston guided the company with practiced posture. Heads high. Reins steady. No haste, no hesitation. The kind of bearing that made men pause and reconsider whether interference was worth the trouble.

  The Turks took the amān seriously. That, more than steel, was what kept hands from reaching for weapons. Offending a knight was one thing. Offending the Sultan of Granada by harming a musta?min was another matter entirely. Face mattered here. Reputation traveled faster than riders. And these people had ways of knowing who caused trouble and who invited it.

  Remy had learned that lesson in Toledo, watching how carefully men chose which insults to answer and which to swallow. Honor was a currency as real as silver, sometimes more expensive.

  They remained in Sofia longer than he had initially planned. The city demanded it. Supplies were better here. Information flowed more freely. And the merchant who took them in was cautious, wealthy, and very much alive, three qualities Remy valued equally.

  The man owned a brick and stone building near the inner quarter, its walls thick, its courtyard broad enough to house horses, wagons, and thirty men without complaint. A tiled roof ran along the perimeter, sturdy enough to shelter those without rooms. The knights were given chambers inside. The rest of the company camped beneath the roofed arcade, sleeping on bedrolls laid over packed earth.

  The merchant spoke Bulgarian at home, Greek in business, and Turkish when it mattered. He shifted between them with the ease of a man who had learned early that language was armor. Over the evening meal, he explained Sofia as one might explain a complicated machine.

  “They call it Sredets,” he said, tearing bread and dipping it in honey. “But everyone knows it as Sofia now. Easier for the tongues passing through.”

  Remy listened, cataloging the details. Fine Bulgarian honey thick as resin. Knives forged from mountain iron. Wool cloth dyed in muted colors that hid wear and dirt. Goods passed through here not because Sofia produced all of them, but because the roads demanded it.

  The city had been firmly under Ottoman rule since 1383, serving as a major administrative center of the Beylerbeylik of Rumelia. Remy saw it in the garrison patrols, in the tax collectors’ ledgers, in the quiet confidence of officials who knew the weight of their authority. And yet Christian traditions remained strong. Bells still rang from churches like St. Sofia, old and stubborn, its stones darkened by centuries of prayer. New mosques rose nearby, their minarets slim and pale against the sky, reflecting a shifting balance that no one bothered to deny.

  Sofia sat astride the route between Europe and Asia like a hand laid flat across the road. Everyone passed through. Merchants. Soldiers. Pilgrims. Refugees. Spies. Those with nowhere else to go. It attracted people the way water drew animals during drought.

  The local Bulgarian population carried themselves with a quiet, grounded pride. Peasants from the surrounding mountains came down to trade, calling themselves descendants of ancient Dacians, their customs tied to land and season more than empire. They wore heavy belts, carried knives even when selling vegetables, and watched strangers with the patience of men who had survived many rulers.

  Wealthy merchants from Dubrovnik lived here as well, forming a small but influential Catholic community. Their names appeared in property records and court documents, their coins smoothing conversations that might otherwise end poorly. Officially, their faith was tolerated. In practice, Remy knew better. Tolerance was purchased, renewed regularly, and revoked when purses ran dry.

  He spoke of this with the merchant one night as they shared wine in the courtyard, the air cooling after a long day.

  “It is because they do not wish to lose your services that they compromise,” the merchant said. “But there are rules. We follow them. We must. Otherwise they lose the coffers that provide them with coins.”

  “I am surprised they do,” Remy replied.

  The merchant laughed softly. “Coin makes men reasonable and unreasonable, Sir. Your letter, your coin, and your well-armed men made them hesitate.”

  “True,” Remy said. He looked around the courtyard, at the men eating, sharpening blades, tending horses. “But at this rate, do you think you can keep up with their ever-increasing demands for contributions? They will squeeze you dry.”

  The merchant’s smile thinned. “Perhaps. But may God as my witness, I shall endure.”

  Remy believed him. Endurance was the true currency of cities like Sofia.

  They stayed several days. Horses were rested. Shoes replaced. Provisions refreshed. Remy walked the city alone when he could, keeping his weapons hidden under the blue cloak. He listened. The call to prayer rose at dawn and dusk, threading through the bells and the noise of the markets. It no longer startled him. It simply marked time.

  One afternoon, Jehan found him watching a group of Bulgarian women selling herbs near the church steps. They spoke softly among themselves, laughter quick and bright.

  “You are thinking again,” she said.

  “I am always thinking,” he replied.

  She watched the street. “Do you like this place?”

  “It is efficient,” he said after a moment. “And dangerous. The most dangerous places usually are.”

  That night, as the company gathered for supper, Sir Gaston spoke quietly with the five veterans who had joined them in Ni?. They fit well among the others. Shared jokes. Shared stories.

  On the fourth morning, rumors reached them of tightened patrols east of the city. Nothing urgent. Nothing confirmed. But enough to remind Remy that staying too long usually invited questions.

  He gathered Sir Gaston, Jehan, and Sir Aldred in the courtyard.

  “We leave tomorrow,” he said.

  No one argued.

  They rode out of Sofia at first light, passing under the gate with the same measured posture they had used to enter. The guards glanced at Remy, at the company, and let them pass without comment. Beyond the walls, the road stretched eastward, pale with dust and promise.

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  Sofia receded behind them, its noise swallowed by distance. Ahead lay more roads, more checkpoints, more negotiations spoken in languages that decided whether men lived or died.

  Remy adjusted his reins and felt Morgan settle into stride beneath him.

  They rode from Sofia toward Ihtimman, leaving the noise behind them as the land slowly opened and sloped downward. The road descended into the great Thracian plain, broad and patient, stretching outward like a held breath. Here, the sky felt wider, the wind less confined. Remy adjusted his pace without thinking, letting Morgan settle into a steady rhythm that matched the road’s long, unbroken lines.

  The Ottomans kept their roads well enough. Not immaculate, but deliberate. Bridges stood where rivers cut through the land, their arches more practical rather than elegant. Toll posts were placed with care, manned by officials who understood procedure better than curiosity. Each stop followed the same pattern when they approached. A raised hand. A measured greeting. The brief pause where judgment weighed intent.

  Remy showed his open palm first. Empty. Then he produced the letter from the Sultan.

  They were wary enough to check it every time.

  Men traced the seal with calloused fingers, murmured among themselves. Some glanced toward the armed company behind him. Others studied Remy’s face, lingering on the calm in his expression. At each crossing, the barrier was lifted, wood scraping against stone, and the road opened again.

  It was during one such stretch, after they had passed the last toll before the hills thickened again, that Jehan rode closer to him.

  She had been quiet for most of the morning, her gaze shifting between the land and the men stationed at each post. Curiosity finally overcame restraint.

  “You speak to them as though you are known,” she said. Not accusing. Observing.

  Remy kept his eyes forward. “I am known enough.”

  She hesitated, then asked, “You said something to them. At the bridge. You called yourself… something.”

  “Ahl al-Kitāb,” he replied. “People of the Book.”

  She frowned slightly. “You told me once that under their law, Christians are not… equal.”

  “They are not,” Remy said. “But they are recognized. With the letter, we are dhimmī. Protected peoples, so long as we follow certain rules.”

  Jehan absorbed that in silence for several steps of the road. “And you accept this?”

  “I acknowledge it,” he corrected. “Acceptance implies approval.”

  She nodded once. Then, after a pause, “You understand their faith very well.”

  “I have had time,” Remy said.

  The road curved gently as they descended, the plain unfolding in bands of gold and green. Nameless villages appeared in the distance, small and orderly, smoke rising straight into the sky. Remy sensed the question before she spoke it.

  “What do they believe?” Jehan asked. “Truly.”

  He considered how to answer. Not because the subject troubled him, but because careless words could harden into misunderstanding.

  “They believe in one God,” he said at last. “As we do. Absolute in unity. Without division.”

  “And Christ?” she pressed.

  “They believe Our Savior to be one of God’s greatest messengers,” Remy said evenly. “Sent to the Children of Israel. They call him al-Masī?. The Messiah.”

  Jehan’s brows drew together. “Then they believe he is the Christ.”

  “Yes,” Remy said. “But not as we understand it.”

  She waited.

  “They do not believe he is divine,” he continued. “Nor the Son of God. Their doctrine rejects the Trinity entirely. Their scripture states plainly that God begets not, nor is He begotten.”

  Jehan let out a sharp breath through her nose. “Then they strip him of his nature.”

  “They see it as preserving God’s,” Remy replied.

  “That is blasphemy,” she said at once.

  “To us,” he agreed.

  She glanced at him, surprised by the calmness of his tone. “And to you?”

  Remy did not answer immediately. The plain rolled past them, unbothered by doctrine.

  “I am telling you what they believe,” he said finally. “Not what I confess.”

  She accepted that, though not comfortably.

  “Do they deny the Virgin as well?” she asked.

  “No,” Remy said. “They believe in the virgin birth. They hold Mary, or Maryam, as the most honored woman in their faith. Pure. Chosen.”

  That gave her pause.

  “They believe Christ had performed miracles,” he went on. “Healing the sick. Giving sight to the blind. Even raising the dead.”

  Jehan’s gaze sharpened. “Then how do they deny his divinity?”

  “They attribute all miracles to God’s permission,” Remy said. “Not to Christ’s own power.”

  She shook her head. “That is a distinction without honesty.”

  “It is a distinction they find essential.”

  The road dipped again, revealing the full sweep of the plain, vast and luminous under the midday sun. Wind tugged at cloaks and banners. The company moved in loose formation, the rhythm of hooves steady and unbroken.

  “And the Crucifixion?” Jehan asked quietly.

  Remy’s jaw tightened by a fraction. “They deny it.”

  Her hand clenched on the reins. “They deny his sacrifice?”

  “They believe he was not killed,” Remy said. “Nor crucified. That God saved him and raised him to Himself.”

  “That is impossible,” she said sharply.

  “They believe the event was made to appear so,” he continued, undeterred. “That another was substituted.”

  “Who?”

  “They often say Judas Iscariot,” Remy replied. “Though interpretations vary.”

  Jehan laughed once, short and incredulous. “Convenient.”

  “That is your judgment,” Remy said. “Not theirs.”

  She fell silent, jaw set, anger simmering beneath her composure. After several moments she said, “Then they erase the very heart of our salvation.”

  “They believe his return will restore justice,” Remy said. “That he will come before the Day of Judgment. That he will defeat the deceiver, the Dajjāl. That he will correct false teachings.”

  “And then?” she asked, almost daring him.

  “And then,” Remy said evenly, “they believe he will die a natural death and be buried in Medina.”

  The words hung between them, heavy as wet cloth.

  Jehan stared at the road ahead, lips pressed tight. “These beliefs sound… invented.”

  “They are true to them,” Remy said.

  She turned on him then, eyes sharp. “You speak of them as though they are merely mistaken scholars.”

  “I speak of them as men of faith,” Remy replied calmly. “Misguided, in our belief. But sincere in theirs.”

  “That does not make it less dangerous.”

  “No,” he agreed. “It makes it more so.”

  Her expression shifted, anger giving way to something unsettled. “It is disturbing,” she said. “And fascinating. How close they come. And yet how twisted it is.”

  Remy inclined his head slightly. “That is often how heresies endure.”

  They rode on, the Thracian plain opening fully before them now, fertile and exposed. The road ahead stretched long and straight, leading toward lands where the Crescent ruled openly and where every word spoken carried weight.

  Jehan remained quiet after that, lost in thought. Remy did not press her further. He had answered what she asked. Nothing more was required.