The night air was a sharp blade against Constantine’s skin as he stood on the marble balcony of his private quarters. The lingering scent of the jasmine tea from the afternoon’s banquet seemed to have followed him, a ghostly reminder of the three broken men who had crawled out of his presence. Below, the palace gardens were bathed in a deceptive, silvery peace, the shadows of the cypress trees stretching like long, skeletal fingers across the manicured lawns. Everything in Astraia felt fragile to him, a kingdom of glass that he was slowly tempering into steel. He leaned his weight against the cold stone railing, feeling the slight tremor in his hands. This body was still a limitation, a vessel that groaned under the immense pressure of his soul’s ambition, yet it was the only weapon he had
