The bells rang softly across the Palace in Constantinople. It was not a call to prayer or a formal gathering, but a reminder that time was still moving, whether one acknowledged it or not.
Bruno sat alone in the library, the hour late enough that the lamps burned low and the staff had long since withdrawn.
Outside, the wind moved gently through the bare branches of winter-bound trees, carrying with it the faint scent of snow that had just begun to fall.
The world felt suspended, balanced between seasons, between moments. He had always preferred these hours.
The surrounding shelves were lined with volumes accumulated across millennia. The grand accumulation of Constantine's lineage hoarded in the personal library of the current King of Greece.
There were duty-old tomes of every variety. Some ancient, some modern, some written in languages no longer spoken aloud. Philosophy, theology, engineering, history.
