The morning air at the Palace Main Gate was brittle and sharp, carrying the scent of impending snow and the metallic tang of damp stone. Huge iron-studded doors stood closed, their dark timber appearing like the skin of an ancient beast. On either side of the entrance, the men of the Third Unit stood in their newly cleaned armor, their postures rigid and their eyes fixed forward. The silence of the dawn was broken only by the rhythmic thumping of approaching hooves and the arrogant jingle of silver harness bells. Constantine stood at the center of the walkway, his thin cloak fluttering in the wind. Beside him, Isabella stood like a statue of tempered steel, her hand resting on the hilt of the blade he had helped her reclaim.
"They arrive with more noise than a conquering army, My Lord," I
