The air surrounding the South Gate of the capital was thick with a damp, clinging fog that swallowed the moonlight and muffled the sounds of the night. It was the hour of the wolf, that silent span before dawn when the world felt fragile and the shadows seemed to possess a life of their own. High atop the stone battlements, Constantine stood as a silent, motionless silhouette against the grey sky. His cloak billowed slightly in the biting wind, but he remained rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the tree line where the southern road emerged from the dense forest. Below him, tucked into the recesses of the gatehouse and hidden behind the heavy portcullis, the Black Wing unit waited in a state of coiled aggression.
Isabella moved quietly along the line of her soldiers, her hand resting on
