A pale morning settled over Constantinople, its light spilling like watered milk across the tiled roofs and newly raised smokestacks. The city was louder now than it had ever been, the song of birds and the tolling of church bells nearly drowned out by the rumble of engines and the shouting of men on the streets below. A persistent drizzle hung in the air, dampening the city's fires but not its resolve. Constantine, standing at the highest window of his private study, watched the city wake and felt the weight of both progress and unrest pressing at the glass.
His routine had changed. Once, mornings began in the council chambers or on the palace steps, his voice echoing in cold marble halls. Now he spent the first hours in silence, observing and recording, taking stock of what his rule had created. The Book of the Unseen, chained to his desk, was always open, its pages shifting when he looked away and returning to their strange, readable order when he faced them directly.
