(Almera POV)
The palace gates of Constantine did not open quickly.
They never had.
Even as a child, I remembered standing beneath their shadow, watching the great marble doors shift inch by inch as if the palace itself were deciding whether those who approached were worthy to enter.
Today, they opened for us.
But not in haste.
Not in welcome.
In calculation.
The sound of iron mechanisms turning echoed outward, deep and deliberate, carrying across the wide courtyard as the Golden Army slowed behind us. The horses beneath our escort shifted uneasily, sensing what men often pretended not to feel—the weight of a place that had seen too much power pass through its halls.
Romulus did not slow.
He rode forward at a measured pace, his posture unchanged, his presence unyielding as the gates parted fully to reveal the palace beyond.
White marble stretched before us in impossible scale.
