Dawn of a New Rome

The new roads radiating out from Constantinople cut through the empire like veins of iron, binding together territories both ancient and new. Their stones gleamed in the morning sun, still damp from the night's rain, and every mile built was a mark of will upon the living world. Beyond the walls, work crews toiled-Romans, Greeks, Thracians, traders from the desert, freedmen and slaves alike-hauling stone and iron, sweating beneath banners marked with the double eagle of the empire. Overseers walked among them, counting every block, timing every cart. The empire did not wait for those who lagged behind.

In the city, the rhythm of daily life pulsed faster. Constantinople's old market, once a quiet knot of traders and gossip, now bustled with noise from sunrise to sunset. New faces crowded the stalls: fur-cloaked traders from the icebound north; tall, brown-skinned envoys from the Golden River Empire, their dialect strange and full of vowels; a handful of tattooed outlanders from the Sea Realms, their hair salted by wind and water. At every corner, rumor bloomed: news of machines that boiled water into steam and drove iron carts up the hills; whispers of monsters seen on the edge of the woods; tales of cities so vast that their walls vanished into mist.

Constantine made a habit of walking the city with only a small escort, choosing his path at random. This morning, he moved through the market on foot, dressed simply, observing everything. Bakers loaded trays of sweet bread onto carts. Shoemakers peddled boots to soldiers from the east. At the fountain, a group of children jostled each other for coins. Constantine paused beside a potter's stall and listened as a pair of older men debated the latest news from the provinces.

"They say the Sun's First Son sent a fleet to Egypt," one murmured, voice lowered. "The ships carried glass so clear you could read a book through a foot of it. They traded it for wheat and wine."

The other man spat. "Glass or gold, it makes no difference. The world is spinning too fast. Every week, new laws. My nephew says they even use iron clocks in the palace now, to time the hours. Next they will time our prayers."

Constantine moved on, heart heavy and sharp at once. Change had a price. He saw the cost in every wary glance, every uncertain smile. But he also saw what most did not: the city was richer, cleaner, busier than it had ever been. No one went hungry unless they chose pride over bread. Children grew up speaking half a dozen languages, their eyes bright with curiosity and ambition.

He crossed into the artisan quarter, where the new foundries smoked day and night. There, he found Valentinus, deep in conversation with a team of mechanics. On a long workbench lay a mess of gears, pipes, and pistons-the broken core of a steam pump, its metal cracked from too much pressure.

Valentinus straightened, wiping his hands. "Augustus. The new alloy from the mountain mines resists heat better, but the workers complain it's harder to shape."

Constantine picked up a gear, weighed it in his hand. "Tell them they are free to fail, as long as they try again. No more beatings for mistakes. If a man learns from his error, the city gains."

A young apprentice stared at him, mouth open. "You mean it, sire?"

Constantine smiled. "Try, fail, then build it better. That is the law now."

Word of such things spread fast. By noon, the work gangs pushed harder, risking more, daring to reassemble the engine before the day's end. The sound of hammers, the scream of metal, the chug of water made a new music in the quarter. Smoke drifted toward the palace, but so did hope.

Back in the palace, messengers waited. One brought news from the far north. The Confederation of the Ice had sent a delegation at last-three men and one woman, each towering and pale, cloaked in wolfskin, their faces inked with runes. They spoke Latin well enough but laced every phrase with threat or humor.

The leader, called Jarn, handed over a gift: a blade of dark metal, impossibly light and sharp, that glimmered blue under the lamplight. "Forged beneath the mountain that never thaws," he said. "In exchange, we ask only knowledge. The secret of your steam."

Constantine accepted the blade. "Allies share more than gifts," he said. "Come, watch our forges. See what you can learn. But the secret of steam belongs to Rome."

Jarn grinned, sharp teeth flashing. "We learn fast."

In the evening, Constantine dined with his council and the visiting northern envoys. The table was heavy with roast boar, new bread, and the last apples of the season. Conversation circled around borders and bandits, then drifted to stranger topics-talk of thunder heard beneath the mountains, of stars that fell to earth and burned green for days.

The envoys from the Golden River Empire shared their own stories. "In our home, there is a tree that bleeds sap like gold. It heals wounds, but if misused, it blinds." Another envoy told of the Deep Desert, where nomads drank water from wells so cold that it turned to mist in the sun, and where serpents grew scales of silver.

Constantine listened, marking every detail. He watched his sons, noting which of them followed the tales, which grew restless, which quietly questioned the guests after the meal. He had begun to teach them not only how to rule, but how to listen.

Later, after the guests retired, Valerius came with reports. His spies had returned from the wild lands east of the Black Sea. There, a new kingdom was forming: the Empire of the Nine Towers, led by a woman known only as the White Regent. Her armies were small but tireless, and her cities rose overnight, built by workers who never seemed to sleep.

"What of her power?" Constantine asked.

Valerius hesitated. "Some say she works with spirits. Others say she has tamed the river gods. Her soldiers do not bleed. Her engineers can mend any wound with silver wire."

Constantine stood by the window, looking east. "Send envoys. Bring her gifts: glass, steel, grain. Tell her that peace is worth more than war."

News from the west was no less unsettling. The Sapphire Cities, long loyal to Rome, had begun to quarrel among themselves. Merchant princes clashed with priestly councils, and one city-Tyrene-had driven out its old ruler, replacing him with a prophet who claimed to speak with the stars.

"He sends letters, full of riddles and threats," Valentinus reported. "His followers wear blue robes, and refuse to touch gold."

"Keep an eye on him," Constantine said. "Fan the quarrels between the cities, but quietly. Let them fear each other more than us."

As the week went on, the world's pace quickened. More embassies arrived: a delegation from the Jade Empire, bearing news of war in the east; a ship from the Sea Realms, its captain seeking permission to trade furs and pearls for iron tools; and, at last, a small group from the Lost Islands, whose dialect none could fully understand.

Constantine met each in turn. He spoke to kings and priests, captains and merchants. He made promises, threats, and bargains in equal measure. Behind closed doors, he plotted alliances, weighing every word, every gesture. Outside, Constantinople spun on-engines running, forges burning, grain loaded by steam cart, children racing beside the iron rails.

Yet even as the city grew, old dangers crept closer. From the north, rumors spread of Veles, the wolf-king, whose followers walked unburned through fire and raised storms with a word. Scouts returned from the Black River, wild-eyed, claiming to have seen beasts twisted by magic and men who vanished in plain sight.

Constantine gathered his council in the war room. A huge map covered the table, marked with pins and colored lines. He pointed to the northern frontier. "We cannot fight sorcery with swords alone. Valentinus, you will work with the scholars to find the logic behind these wonders. Valerius, double the watch at every outpost. Marcus, have the engineers design new engines-armored wagons, if need be. No one passes the border without my leave."

The generals grumbled, but obeyed. The city's pulse quickened as rumors of war rose in the air.

As the sun set on another long day, Constantine walked the city once more. He watched families gather outside their homes, sharing bread, telling stories. He saw children racing after a rolling hoop, a smith's apprentice showing off a toy engine cobbled together from spare parts. In the city's quieter lanes, he heard the soft prayers of the faithful, the laughter of lovers, the arguments of old friends.

The city was not just engines and stone. It was people. Every face mattered. Every life was a piece of the world he built and defended.

That night, Constantine sat alone with the Book of the Unseen. He turned the pages, studying diagrams for engines not yet born, medicines not yet made, ships meant to fly. Each idea was a dream, but also a threat. He wondered how long he could keep such power in the hands of the few. How long before others learned what he knew?

He slept fitfully, haunted by visions: cities burning, machines run wild, the world's map twisting and folding until every border vanished and every empire fell.

Morning came. The world kept spinning. Constantine rose, dressed, and prepared to meet whatever new challenge the day would bring.

Far from Constantinople, in the halls of the White Regent, in the shadowed palaces of the Golden River, in the storm-wracked camps of the wolf-king, rulers whispered his name. Some dreamed of alliance, some of vengeance, some only of survival. The Age of Iron had begun, and no power on earth could slow it.