The sky over the Astraia Capital Square was the color of a bruised lung, heavy with bloated, charcoal clouds that finally broke into a torrential downpour. Rain lashed against the cobblestones with a rhythmic, violent hiss, washing away the summer dust and replacing it with the scent of wet granite and cold iron. Thousands of citizens and hundreds of soldiers stood in the deluge, their clothes soaked through, their eyes fixed on the wooden platform that had been erected overnight. In the center of the square, the high platform stood like an altar of judgment, its timber dark and slick with water. Constantine stood at the edge of the dais, oblivious to the rain that matted his hair to his forehead and ran in rivulets down his pale cheeks. Behind him, Isabella stood with her hand on her swor
