A Room of Dimming Suns

The hallways of the imperial palace seemed to draw tighter around Constantine with every step. Shadows pooled in the corners, torchlight crawling along painted walls, illuminating old triumphs that now felt brittle in the wake of loss. He did not let himself look back. There was no time to mourn-only to act. Behind him, Helena lingered with the corpse of the emperor, her quiet grief held inside the boundaries of duty. Ahead, the air thickened with the weight of waiting.

Valerius paced beside the doors to the council chamber, the glint of armor and the wolf-crest on his cloak marking him as both guardian and accomplice. Constantine met his gaze and found neither sympathy nor pity, only hard readiness. Every gesture was measured, every word held back, as if both men knew that any excess would be a weakness others could sense.

"The officers are assembled," Valerius murmured. "Some have heard the news already. The rest suspect."

Constantine nodded once, gathering himself. The cloak across his shoulders was heavier now. "No rumor leaves this hall. Post men at every entrance. If anyone tries to slip away, detain them."

Valerius inclined his head, then moved off with quiet efficiency. Constantine stepped into the council chamber, bracing himself for what lay ahead.

Inside, the atmosphere was taut as a drawn bow. Around the long table sat the senior officers of the garrison-tribunes, centurions, prefects, men of the old campaigns and new ambitions. The room buzzed with an undercurrent of suspicion. Some men watched Constantine with veiled hope; others with doubt, a few with open calculation. No one offered condolences.

He stood at the head of the table, letting the silence grow thick. When he spoke, his voice was low, steady, and left no room for questioning.

"My father, the Augustus, is dead. He gave me his last commands and his blessing. I have sworn to keep the empire safe, to hold the loyalty of this army, to defend the West."

No one interrupted. He read their faces-finding the ones who had always flinched from authority, marking those whose ambition sharpened in crisis.

"I know there are men here who think me too young, too untried, too far from Rome. I know there are some who would rather see Severus crowned by Galerius or the purple handed to a man with more years. But the Sixth Victrix stands here, in Eboracum. So do I."

He looked to Crocus, the German commander, whose mercenaries held the camp's perimeter. "You knew my father in the field. Will you stand with me?"

Crocus met his gaze, his accent thick. "The Sixth is yours, if you hold it. Show us your iron, not your tears."

A faint smile. "I have no time for tears." Constantine faced the others. "My father's body lies under guard. Until Rome herself confirms the succession, this city and this army will not move without my command. Anyone who disobeys is a traitor to the purple."

Murmurs ran the length of the table, but none challenged him. Some nodded. Some simply looked away. He had staked his claim with confidence, not anger. The move was calculated-assertive, but not desperate. The habit of command must begin now, and never waver.

"Valerius, close the doors."

The prefect signaled. Sentries stepped into place, spears crossed, shutting out the world. Constantine pressed on.

"All orders from the palace are suspended until I say otherwise. No letters leave Eboracum without my seal. The city watch is doubled. The legion will drill as usual, but the gates remain closed. Only my word opens them."

He studied his officers one by one. Some faces betrayed relief, others tension, a few the cold hunger of ambition. He took the measure of each, filing away the knowledge for the contests to come.

"Galerius will send envoys. He will not accept my acclamation easily. I expect attempts to bribe, to frighten, perhaps to divide the legion. No man here is above suspicion-not even me. We hold together, or we die separately."

A centurion rose, his hair silver at the temples. "What of Severus? Will he march north?"

"He will try. But he is far, and we are here. By the time his banners cross the Alps, this city must be unbreakable."

Another officer asked, "And the people, Dominus? The markets are restless. Some whisper of rebellion. Some expect a new reign to mean new laws-or new punishments."

Constantine considered. "Discipline must hold, but so must hope. Post notices in the forum by sundown. The grain dole continues. No new taxes. Soldiers' pay will not be cut. Anyone who spreads panic is to be held for questioning, but let the people mourn. Let them believe in the strength of the purple, not just the sword behind it."

There were nods around the table, some grudging, some approving. The balance had shifted, but not snapped. He could feel the first threads of loyalty beginning to tie themselves to him-not out of love, but out of respect for the man who seized the moment with both hands.

He ended the council with a simple command. "You know your duties. Do them. Fail me, and I will replace you."

The men filed out, leaving only Valerius behind. Constantine leaned against the table, letting himself breathe for the first time since dawn.

Valerius stood at his side. "They will watch you now. Every move, every word."

"I know," Constantine replied. "That is why we must move first. The army must see strength, not hesitation. The people must see order, not confusion."

Valerius regarded him, good eye sharp, ruined eye unreadable. "Do you wish to see the Sixth assembled?"

"At once. On the parade ground. I will speak to them myself."

As Valerius went to carry out the order, Constantine took a moment alone. The gravity of power pressed on his chest, but he refused to bend. He remembered his father's words. Trust the eagle's sight, not the fox's whisper.

He crossed to the window. Outside, the city was waking, the last of the storm clouds lifting from the walls. Down in the yard, soldiers were already gathering, the rhythm of their boots echoing through the stone. The legion was his, but only if he held it. He pressed his hands flat to the window ledge, willing himself to absorb the strength of the world beyond.

Soon, he would stand before them-not as the sick boy in bed, not as the grieving son, but as the master of their fate. He would offer the legion security, order, the promise of reward. He would make them fear failure more than the future.

As he turned from the window, the weight of history settled across his shoulders-a burden, yes, but also a shield. The night had ended. His reign had begun.

He strode from the chamber, each step carrying him further from the past and deeper into the maze of empire. In every corridor, every courtyard, eyes followed him. Rumor would spread, as it always did, but he would ride it like a current-steering it, shaping it, never letting it outpace him.

In the square, the Sixth Victrix formed up, ranks straight, spears leveled, eyes set on their new commander. Constantine mounted the platform, cloak swirling, voice steady as he addressed the legion.

"Your emperor is dead. Rome needs men of iron. I am here. I am ready. Stand with me, and together we will hold the West for Caesar and for Rome."

A roar answered him. Spears rattled on shields, a tide of loyalty-perhaps not yet love, but enough for now.

He raised a hand, not for silence, but for oath. "Swear to me as I swear to you: no fear, no division, no betrayal. Rome will stand as long as we stand together."

One by one, voices joined the call. Steel rang out. The sun crept higher, burning away the last of the night's uncertainty.

As the ceremony ended and the legion dispersed, Constantine allowed himself a single thought of his father, gone beyond reach but never far from mind. The world had turned, and now he stood at its center.

No matter the storm that waited, he would not flinch.