Rome held its breath for days after the clang of axes faded from the broken stones of the Praetorian camp. Smoke drifted over the city like incense from a grim altar, lingering above the charred walls and collapsed towers that had, for centuries, sheltered the ambitions of kingmakers. On the Palatine, clerks hurried through colonnades with slates and scrolls, the footsteps of a new regime echoing across ancient marble. Rome was learning the rhythm of a master who prized calculation over ceremony, and the people felt it in every decree.
Constantine's eye never softened. He watched Rome adapt with the same cold interest he had once reserved for failing republics glimpsed through holoscreens in another life. An empire, he knew, was not a monument to tradition. It was a machine built to move men and grain and gold across distances so vast that sentiment would break under the weight. If the machine shuddered, he would oil its gears with law or blood, whichever was cheaper.
