Constantine offered Katarina his arm as they stepped from the citadel's shade into late-morning light. Heat shimmered on the stones; a salt breeze lifted the harbor's scent and teased a strand of her hair across her cheek. He half-reached to smooth it back, stopped, and let his hand rest briefly on her shoulder. She didn't flinch, only glanced aside, a hint of a smile softening her face. Together they descended toward the city.
Glarentza seemed changed since the wedding, brighter, perhaps, though he could not tell if the hope in the streets was real or his own. Katarina's hand lay in the crook of his arm, light as a bird. There was a new shyness between them in daylight; night had been tender, but the sun restored formality. They had not yet learned the language of marriage, but each shared glance, each polite exchange carried a gentle gravity.
The city spread below them, alive with work and dust. Near the gate, new warehouses rose along the harbor road, broad frames of timber and lime where men hauled beams and stacked fresh-cut stone. Constantine slowed, nodding toward them. "For the paper trade," he said softly. "We'll need space for the mills' stock before autumn."
Katarina's gaze followed the scaffolds and the rhythmic lift of pulleys. "They work hard," she murmured, the first words she'd offered unprompted.
"They do," Constantine replied. "Each year the city pushes farther out." He caught himself sounding too proud and smiled to soften it.
A boy passed near, his arms white with plaster dust. Without a word, Katarina slipped free of Constantine's arm and drew a small coin from her girdle. She pressed it into the boy's hand, a quiet gesture almost lost in the noise. The boy's eyes widened; bowed awkwardly, and ran back to the scaffold.
Constantine pretended not to notice, though warmth rose in his chest. "You've made him very happy, I think," he murmured.
"It was just a trifle," she said, almost a whisper. "He's a child… working so hard in the heat."
"A trifle can mean the world to someone with little," Constantine said quietly. "It was kind."
She lowered her eyes, a faint curve at her lips. In the silence that followed, he felt her regard steady him; he straightened as they walked on.
They passed through the narrow lanes of the lower town, where balconies nearly met overhead and the scent of bread hung in the air. People paused in their work to bow or offer greetings. Constantine answered with a nod; Katarina with a quiet smile. A few children lingered near the roadside, and she pressed small coins into their hands before moving on. By the time they reached the marketplace, word of their passage had spread ahead of them, warmth and curiosity following in their wake.
They turned onto the broad avenue toward the harbor. The Ionian Sea blazed under the noon sun, the air sharp with brine and tar. Two sailors passed with coils of rope, laughter dying as they noticed Constantine. They straightened, saluted; he returned the gesture with a brief wave, and they went on smiling.
"They respect you… and not from fear," she said. She watched the sailors until they'd passed, as if checking whether the straightened backs were habit, or choice.
Constantine felt a faint blush warming his neck. "I hope so," he said, half-laughing. "I grew up thinking rulership was all fear and awe, that one had to be aloof, above the people. But now…" He trailed off, unsure how to articulate the transformation in his philosophy these past years. How a man from another world still struggled to balance conscience and crown, reason and rule. Instead, he finished simply, "Now I find I would rather walk among my people than tower over them."
Katarina regarded him for a long moment. He wondered if he'd said too much. But then she spoke, and her voice carried a new softness. "My mother was right," she said. "You truly are a builder… not just of walls and roads, but of trust."
He didn't answer at once. He looked past her to the shipyard cranes, then back. "Your mother is a wise woman," he said, smiling. "And she raised a wise daughter."
Katarina shook her head, but her smile reached her eyes at last, the guarded veil between them lifting a little more.
They continued down until the harbor opened before them, the quays crowded with ships and traders, masts swaying like a forest in the wind. To the far right, the shipyard gleamed in the sun, cranes and scaffolds.
Constantine pointed toward them. "That's where we're laying the foundations for a new fleet," he said. "The first ship will bear your name, Katarina."
She turned to him, surprised, and for a moment the noise of the harbor seemed to fade. "You honor me," she said quietly.
He smiled. "It's fitting. She'll be built to endure."
Katarina's gaze lingered on the distant shipyard, then on him. "Then may she sail in calm waters," she murmured.
They stood side by side in the sea breeze, the scent of salt and tar reaching even here, where the city opened toward the horizon.
"You seem at home here," Katarina said, turning toward him.
"Here in Glarentza?"
She shook her head. "Here, among builders, men who work with their hands. You seem easier with them than with the courtiers."
Constantine smiled faintly. "Perhaps because there's less pretence. Out here, a man's work speaks for him."
She studied him, then said quietly, "Thank you for bringing me."
"To the harbor?"
"To the city. To what matters to you."
He hesitated, then answered, "It seemed right that you should see it. This is where our future is built."
Katarina looked down, brushing dust from her fingers. After a moment she placed her hand lightly over his. "Then I'm glad you showed me," she said.
The noise of the harbor receded. Her veil stirred in the wind; he resisted the impulse to reach for it. Instead, he offered his arm.
"Shall we continue?"
She took it without hesitation. "Yes," she said.
They left the harbor clamor behind, climbing into the older quarter below the citadel. Here, an old mansion ran along the street. Under the arches, Constantine led Katarina through a set of open wooden doors. A painted sign above them depicted an open book and a laurel wreath, but otherwise the building's façade was plain. Inside, however, the high ceilings and cool halls retained a faded elegance. This was the Academy, born just months ago from Plethon's vision and Constantine's determination.
No lectures were scheduled at this hour, so the halls were nearly empty. Nearly, but not quite. As Constantine and Katarina moved deeper inside, a sudden clatter of sandals on stone broke the quiet. A young man rounded the corner at speed, arms full of scrolls. He froze mid-stride, eyes widening, and nearly dropped the whole bundle.
"Mercy—! Majesty!" he stammered, horror flooding his face. Several books slipped free and hit the floor with a slap. "Forgive me, I didn't see, I'm so sorry!"
Constantine stooped before the lad could recover, gathering the scattered volumes with an easy smile. "Easy, Meliton. No harm done. Catch your breath, are you late for something?"
The student, a gangly deacon's nephew who had earned one of the first spots at the Academy , flushed red as a beet. "Only trying to catch Master Argyros before he leaves, Majesty. He wanted some books from the archives… and I lost track of the hour copying notes…" He bit off the babble, ducking his head in embarrassment.
Constantine handed back the books. "Off you go, then." With an apologetic bob to Katarina and a renewed burst of speed, Meliton scurried off down the hall.
Katarina watched him disappear around another bend, a gentle amusement on her face. "He's very… eager," she commented.
"That he is," Constantine smiled. "Most of our students are. Eager and earnest, though perhaps not always organized."
They continued on at an unhurried pace. Through an open doorway, Katarina glimpsed a small classroom, a half-circle of desks beneath a map of the Peloponnese, its coastlines inked in black and red. Another door revealed a narrow library where a clerk sorted through piles of books. The place was modest, still unfinished, but alive with quiet purpose.
In a sunlit courtyard, a man in a dark robe rose hastily from a bench as they entered. His beard was streaked with gray, and the quickness of his movement belied his age. "Majesty!" he exclaimed, bowing deeply. "Your Majesties, what an unexpected honor! You give this poor teacher heart palpitations, walking in without a word."
Constantine smiled. "Peace, Brother Nikolaos. We're only visiting."
Nikolaos, head of the Academy, smoothed his robe with a self-conscious laugh. "Then welcome all the same. We've begun sorting the books and assigning the rooms. The classrooms are small, but the light is good, and good light forgives many shortcomings."
Katarina looked around with quiet interest. Shelves half-filled with books lined the walls; the scent of parchment mingled with sun-warmed plaster. "I've never seen so many books in one place," she said.
"Where is Master Plethon?" Constantine asked.
"Out walking with the students," Nikolaos replied. "He claims they think better when the wind argues with them. Personally, I prefer a roof, but the Master has always been braver than I."
Constantine nodded, amused. "It sounds like him."
Nikolaos led them through the courtyard as he spoke. "We've enrolled forty students so far, mostly sons of merchants and clerks. It's a start."
Turning to Katarina, Constantine said, "The first aim is simple: to teach men the art of governance. Our new lands are still run by soldiers and priests. We desperetly need administrators who can read, calculate, and think beyond the sword."
Katarina's gaze swept the quiet halls again. "Then this place will shape more than minds," she said. "It will shape the Empire itself."
Nikolaos gave a small, satisfied grunt. "From your lips to the Lord's ear, Your Majesty. "
Constantine smiled. "That will do for a beginning."
They left the Academy near midday, the sound of Brother Nikolaos's voice still echoing faintly in the halls behind them. The street sloped toward the sea, and soon the scent of ink and parchment gave way to the sharper tang of vinegar, herbs, and salt.
The hospital stood at the edge of the quarter near the warehouses. a long, plain building of stone with its wide windows thrown open to the air. Outside, people waited: a dockworker with a splinted leg, a mother rocking a bundle against her shoulder, a monk leading a mule burdened with bandaged panniers.
Inside, the air was thick and alive, heat, steam, the sour-sweet smell of vinegar and sweat. A nun moved between pallets fanning a child, a monk poured water from a steaming kettle, a young boy wrung out linen and shook it like a sail.
Brother Damianos appeared, bowing quickly, his eyes ringed with exhaustion. "Majesty. Your Majesty," he said, breathless. "Forgive the disorder. We do what we can, but the beds no longer suffice."
They soon followed him through the hall. A physician bent over a child while a nun murmured a psalm under her breath. In another corner, a soldier with a stitched scalp slept open-mouthed. Katarina's grip firmed on his arm. She drew a breath through her nose, held it, then let it out slowly without speaking.
Near a brazier, a man worked with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms red from steam. The copper kettle seethed; when he lifted the lid, a gust of heat rose, and inside, a set of forceps and knives glimmered in the boil like fish in a net.
Katarina stopped, startled. "He's boiling the instruments," she murmured.
Constantine followed her gaze. "Yes," he said. "At my order."
The surgeon turned then, realizing who stood behind him. He dropped into a hasty bow, the heat still radiating from his skin. "Majesty. Forgive, I didn't see—"
"It's well," Constantine said. "Continue."
Katarina's eyes lingered on the rising steam. "And this helps?" she asked quietly.
"It does," he said, his tone measured. "Fire purifies. It drives out rot and foul airs. The body, like the soul, must be kept clean if it's to endure."
The surgeon glanced between them, uncertain if he'd heard blessing or decree. Around them, a few of the nuns nodded, reassured by the word fire.
Katarina said nothing more, but Constantine felt her glance, sharp, knowing, as though she'd heard the seam between faith and reason and chose not to pull at it.
Brother Damianos drew near. "Majesty," he said softly, "since we began the boiling and the cleansing, fewer mothers are lost. The infants too. Word travels fast, now women come even from the villages, hoping to give birth here. We turn none away, but the beds…"
He gestured toward the crowded hall. Pallets lined the walls, every space filled. In one corner, a young mother held her child close while a nun laid a hand against her brow with practiced calm. Another woman waited her turn, lips moving soundlessly in prayer. The place no longer felt like an experiment. It had become part of the city's heartbeat.
Constantine watched in silence for a moment, taking in the rhythm of care, the quiet trust that filled the room. "They come because they believe," he said finally. "That's worth more than gold."
Damianos inclined his head. "Belief helps us, Majesty, but we still need more room. The beds are too few."
"You'll have them," Constantine said. "I'll bring it before the next council."
Relief and gratitude softened the monk's worn face. "God grant you many years, Majesty."
Katarina watched the nuns move among the cots, their voices low, their movements steady. "So much pain," she murmured, "and yet… peace."