Morning arrived cold and bright over Constantinople. A thin mist lingered in the gardens, drifting through hedges and olive trees, turning marble pillars silver and gold as the sun rose behind the dome of Hagia Sophia. The city was silent, as if holding its breath. Not even the gulls cried out.
Constantine did not sleep. He had spent the night pacing the floor of his private chamber, never sitting, never letting the fatigue reach his eyes. On his desk lay the Book of the Unseen, closed, heavy as a shield, its presence pulsing with secrets. Every time he glanced at it, he felt a pressure behind his eyes-a reminder of what he now carried, and what he could never share.
