1885, I came to save Greece

The top-secret telegram in the king's hand rustled, not from the paper itself, but from the unconscious friction of his knuckles. He trembled slightly, not from the cold, but from a shiver that ran deep in his soul.

The son before him had a face he knew best, but those blue eyes reflected something completely foreign to him. It wasn't the look of an eighteen or nineteen-year-old boy; it was deep, calm, even... indifferent, as if everything in the world was just a bunch of calculable data in his eyes.

"Connie..."

George I's voice was dry, as if blown by the Sahara wind, "You...who exactly are you?"

He leaned forward, his hands resting on the luxurious rosewood table, his fingertips turning slightly white from the excessive force.

"Are you God's messenger sent to save Greece... or... the incarnation of the devil?"

The air in the palace seemed to freeze. The flickering candlelight cast the king's distorted, terrified shadow on the wall, making it appear menacing and menacing.

Constantine's expression remained completely unchanged.

He knew very well that any explanation of "divine revelation" at this moment would only cause this devout Orthodox king to completely break down. He needed a strong remedy, but it had to be wrapped in the gentlest sugar coating.

"Father, I am still me. Constantine, Crown Prince of Greece."

Constantine stepped forward, poured the king a glass of cold water, and pushed it in front of him.

"But I am no longer that boy who only learned how to waltz and how to kiss the back of a noblewoman's hand in the courts of Berlin and St. Petersburg."

His voice was calm, with a strange, soothing power.

"What I see is the disease of this country. It is terminally ill, and those ministers only use fanaticism as a fever reducer and nationalist liquor to numb it, which will only lead to the whole country being burned to ashes."

"That so-called 'prophecy' is neither a divine decree nor the whispers of the devil." Constantine's fingers tapped lightly on the table, making a soft, rhythmic sound, as if striking the heartbeat of the king.

"That's a deduction."

"Based on a deep analysis of the interests of various countries, historical inertia, and the character of their rulers, the British Empire needed a weak but controllable Ottoman Turkey to block the Russians' southward advance. This was their national policy, ingrained in their very being, and would not change for a hundred years. Therefore, they would never allow us to initiate a war and disrupt the balance in the Eastern Mediterranean. This did not require prophecy, Father; one only needed to put together the public speeches of their Prime Minister, Foreign Secretary, and Queen to reach this conclusion."

"Deduction?"

King George I didn't touch the glass of water. He slumped wearily into the velvet sofa behind him, sinking into it completely. The two words, instead of comforting him, stirred up a deeper and heavier fear within him.

"Déjà vu? Connie, my son! Can you deduce how many British ironclads there are? Can you deduce how heavy their main gun shells are? You can't even deduce that a single salvo from them could wipe Piraeus off the map!"

The king's voice suddenly rose, filled with years of suppressed humiliation and powerlessness.

"From the day I, the Danish prince, set foot on this land and became King of Greece, this country has lived in the shadow of the British!"

"Thirty years ago, when we wanted to reclaim the Ionian Islands, which were occupied by Britain, they simply issued a diplomatic note and forced the entire Athens cabinet to resign!"

"Twenty years ago, during the Cretan uprising, we wanted to support our compatriots, but the British fleet blockaded the port of Piraeus! Our merchant ships couldn't even transport a single plank!"

"They are the sword of Damocles hanging over our heads! They are the jailers of the Mediterranean! To anger them is to commit suicide for our entire nation! Do you understand this humiliation? You simply don't!"

The king's chest heaved violently, the past events like poisonous thorns piercing him, drawing blood.

Constantine listened in silence, offering no rebuttal.

After the king had calmed down a bit while breathing heavily, he slowly spoke: "Have you finished venting, Father? If cursing them can reduce the Royal Navy's fleet by one ship, I'm willing to curse with you all night long."

King George I was taken aback by his words, his face flushed red, but he couldn't utter a word.

Constantine walked to the huge brass globe in the corner of the room, gently flicked his fingers, and made the blue planet slowly rotate.

Finally, he stopped.

The British Empire, marked with the red colonial symbols, faces George I on the sofa.

"Father, you're right."

Constantine's voice broke through the silence of the room.

"You only saw the sword, that incredibly sharp sword hanging overhead."

His finger pointed to London.

"But you didn't see the hand holding the sword. And what was driving that hand?"

"Britain has no permanent friends or permanent enemies, only permanent interests. This was said by their own Prime Minister, Palmerston."

Constantine turned the globe, exposing Russia's vast territory and its access to the Black Sea to the king.

"What we need to do is not to challenge that sword that can cut through iron like mud. What we need to do is to make the hand that holds the sword feel that using us is far more valuable than suppressing us."

"Look, the Russians, this polar bear, dream of charging into the Mediterranean and finding an ice-free port. The British, on the other hand, are stubbornly blocking it with this rotten wooden door of the Ottomans. Now, we, this hunting dog that looks like we're about to go mad, are barking wildly at that rotten door and about to pounce and bite it. Will the British shoot us dead, or will they throw us a bone and let us go bite the polar bear?"

This crude yet incredibly precise metaphor compelled George I's confused thoughts to follow his logic. Fear and anger were gradually replaced by an unprecedented possibility.

Constantine finally made his request formally, his voice solemn.

"I need to have a long talk with you. All night long."

"There were no attendants, no ministers, and no third person."

"It's just the two of us, father and son."

"Tonight, I will show you a brand new world chessboard. A chessboard... with us, Greece, as the players!"

King George I raised his head and stared intently at his son.

The brass stand of the globe reflected the candlelight, which danced in those young blue eyes. There was no impulsiveness or fanaticism that belonged to that age, only a calm rationality and calculation as steadfast as a millennia-old glacier.

The king suddenly realized that this was not a request.

This is an ultimatum.

After a long silence, George I seemed to use all his strength to wave towards the door.

"Get out, everyone."

His voice was hoarse, yet it conveyed an unyielding resolve that could not be disobeyed.

The attendants and guards outside the palace bowed and withdrew, their hearts filled with doubt and unease, as they gently closed the heavy palace gates.

King George I stood up, walked to the door himself, and turned the brass key.

"Click".

A crisp click of the lock shut completely isolated this palace, this father and son, from the rest of the world.

A secret meeting that would determine the future of Greece for decades to come, and even the entire European landscape, officially began in the deep recesses of the palace.

King George I turned to look at his son and spoke slowly and deliberately.

"explain."