Constantine watched the city from the highest gallery, his cloak weighed down by morning dew and responsibility. Constantinople-no, the New Rome-seemed to stretch forever beneath the blood-red sky, its domes and chimneys veiled in ribbons of smoke and steam. The city's heart pulsed with change, every moment caught between memory and invention.
He was not alone. Valerius stood behind him, hands folded, eyes roaming the skyline for threats visible and unseen. Marcus, his old comrade and captain of the palace guard, paced the shadowed corridor. Far below, the city groaned and exhaled: the clang of iron, the snarl of engines, the shouts of dockworkers as ships from the world's farthest corners unloaded their cargo.
But beneath the surface, tension shimmered. The city was alive, but every sinew felt drawn to its limit-like a warhorse lathered before a charge.
