The fires of dawn cast a hard red light over Constantinople, painting the half-finished domes and scaffolds in a haze of smoke and promise. The night's rain still clung to the city, glistening in gutters and dripping from stone lions, but the world itself felt new, as if the storm had washed away the last stains of the old age. Constantine stood at the highest gallery of his palace, his cloak heavy with dew, looking out over the endless city that bore his name.
He was not alone. Valerius lingered in the shadows by the marble balustrade, face grim, arms folded. Beyond him, Marcus paced the corridor with a restlessness that spoke of old soldiering habits. Far below, the city's streets were already stirring, merchants opening their shops, blacksmiths lighting their forges, vendors crying out in a dozen languages. The steam-driven water pumps in the lower districts let out faint chuffs of vapor, an alien sound in the old city, but one Constantine found strangely satisfying.
