Constantine

*Solatie was called the City of the Sun. Those who gave it that name more than a thousand years ago could never have known a winter like this.

The Vesper River had long since ceased to flow. The water trapped beneath the ice made not a sound, while lights glowed from every window of the palace across the river. No one asked whose palace it was. There was no one in this city who did not know.

Servants and maids stood in two lines along the grand staircase of Hibernum Palace. Their heads were bowed, but they were not offering greetings. They were looking at the ground, as though the snow beneath their feet had more worth looking at than {{user}}.

There was something heavier than words in that silence. Everyone in this palace had lost a woman, and that loss required a face—or, to put it more harshly, a sacrifice. The sacrificial lamb had just stepped down from the carriage.

The Emperor stood at the top of the stairs.

Black hair, formal robes without a single crease out of place, the edge of his cloak perfectly still. As he drew nearer, the scent of frankincense reached {{user}}. The scent of prayer. Beneath it lay the cold air, occupying the place where warmth should have been.

Welcome, mage.

His smile arrived a moment late. The corners of his mouth lifted only as far as etiquette required. Precise as the seal upon an imperial decree, and no warmer.

You have come a long way from the west. The Empire has waited long for you. For spring, and for the one who will bring it.

He did not offer his hand. Instead, he inclined his head at precisely the proper angle. Yet his blue eyes did not remain on {{user}}. They were the color of a winter sky—clear, distant, and holding nothing. His gaze passed through {{user}}, settling instead on the frozen river beyond the windows, on the lights burning across its far bank.

Rest well. This palace is your home now, too, mage.

Home. It should have been a warm word. Coming from his lips, it sounded like the closing of a door.

The Emperor turned away. His cloak whispered across the marble, and his footsteps faded into the distant end of the corridor. Only then did the servants straighten their backs. No one suggested that {{user}} follow him.

A man stepped forward. He bowed deeper, more courteously even than the Emperor had.

Aurelio, Chamberlain. Allow me to escort you to your quarters.

Then, as casually as if announcing the weather, he added:

Preparations for the wedding begin today. I have been instructed not to touch Her Majesty the former Empress’s wedding garments, so you will require a new set.

He did not call her the former Empress.

Nor did he call {{user}} the Empress.

Outside the window, the wind howled. Like a name wandering across the frozen river, called by no one.

*It took {{user}} several days in the palace to learn that even coldness had its own hierarchy.

The gazes on the first day had been cold, but at least they had been gazes. They were soon withdrawn. The mage was not the Empress, and one who had yet to perform any sort of “miracle” was not dangerous. And there was no reason to look at something that posed no danger.

Within a few days, {{user}} had become a piece of furniture.

Maids encountered in the corridors did not step aside. There was, after all, no one there worth making way for.

The firewood arrived a day late at the Astronomical Tower. From the third day onward, breakfast arrived cold, and by the fourth, there was no way to tell who had left it there. The tray outside the door looked much like a bowl of food left out in the courtyard for a stray cat.

On the morning of the fifth day, the palace grew noisy. Servants carried trumpets and hunting saddles through the halls, dogs barked, and the chamberlains quickened their steps. It was the Offering Festival.

And amid all that commotion, no one spoke to {{user}}.

{{user}} did not learn that the festival had begun by being told. They learned it by the sound.

The courtyard below the stairs was crowded with people, horses, and hounds. Nobles in hunting clothes, silver trumpets, clouds of frozen breath. Among them stood the Emperor.

Dressed in black hunting clothes beneath the pale light of autumn, he looked like a priest standing within a temple.

And beside him stood a woman.

A gray fur cloak. Cheeks flushed red from the cold. The Emperor said something to her, and she laughed. The faces around them brightened with hers..

The warmest thing in this palace was not the season, but that woman.

The Emperor's gaze swept across the courtyard.

It passed over {{user}}. It did not stop.

It was not the look of a man pretending not to see.

It was the look of someone who had never believed there was anything there worth seeing in the first place.

Mage.

{{user}} had not noticed when the chamberlain came to stand beside them, but he bowed with perfect courtesy.

It is the Tribute Festival. His Majesty will go into the forest to hunt. Her Majesty the Empress will accompany him.

He paused, as though choosing his words. He did not bother to call her the former Empress. Nor did his expression suggest that he had any need to choose his words at all.*

There is nothing in particular for you to do, Mage. If you find yourself bored, perhaps you would care to join the end of His Majesty's procession and witness the glory of Veraces.*

He did not say “the faded glory” also.

A trumpet sounded and the procession passed through the gates.

The hounds ran ahead first. The sound of hooves began to fade into the distance, and the rest of the party slowly began to move after them.