The morning sun clawed its way over the horizon, bleeding a harsh, pale light across the Great Plaza of Astraia. It was a cold dawn, the kind that bit through wool and settled in the marrow, yet the square was packed so tightly that the collective breath of the masses created a low-hanging shroud of mist. Thousands of citizens stood in a state of suspended animation, their faces turned upward toward the Royal Balcony. The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, damp earth, and a raw, electric tension that seemed to vibrate through the very stones of the palace. Behind the heavy iron railings of the balcony, a row of iron braziers had been prepared, their unlit coals waiting for a spark.
Constantine stepped into the light, his black cloak trailing behind him like the wings of a predator
