The day broke with a cold wind off the sea, setting the city's banners flapping and scattering gulls across the mouth of the Golden Horn. In Constantinople's streets, the new day began not with prayer or politics, but with the relentless music of industry. Hammers rang out from every quarter, punctuated by the whistle of overseers and the deep, unfamiliar chug of engines. The people had learned to expect the Emperor's pace-a rhythm set not by the calendar of saints, but by a schedule of iron, grain, and ambition.
Constantine had not slept. For hours, he had walked the highest galleries of the palace, mind sharp as the wind, watching his city come alive beneath a sky the color of hammered lead. Now, with the first light glinting on the domes of Hagia Sophia and the distant cranes, he summoned his household. The inner circle gathered at his word: Valerius with the overnight reports, Marcus with the new watchlists, Valentinus with a folder of sketched blueprints and trembling hands.
