Winter arrived with a hush in Constantinople, turning the world white at dawn and blue by twilight. Snow fell thick across the roofs and courtyards, muffling the sounds of engines and markets, coating the old city in a silent shroud. Fires glowed behind every window, and the city's energy turned inward: smiths and engineers worked in heated halls, merchants traded from behind curtains, and the streets filled with children sliding across the marble in boots lined with wool.
For Constantine, winter always brought restlessness. Gone were the days when he could take the field at a moment's notice or ride from sunrise to sunset across the empire's borders. The world had grown too large, its needs too complicated, and his presence too necessary in too many places at once. The palace itself became both sanctuary and prison.
